


Junkies

by freezerjerky



Category: RocknRolla (2008), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crossover, M/M, Spoilers, excessive use of the fuck word
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-07
Updated: 2011-12-18
Packaged: 2017-10-27 01:06:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 23,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/289890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freezerjerky/pseuds/freezerjerky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock/RocknRolla crossover fic. Because everyone needs to intermix their favorite tv show with their favorite movie.</p><p>Now completely clean Johnny Quid goes missing for what feels like the thousandth time. Everyone thinks he's gone back to the drugs, but Archy doesn't think so. In typical mobster fashion, Archy forces the World's Only Consulting Detective and his ex-army doctor assistant to help find the missing man.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This whole thing began by me desperately wanting a crossover fic, but knowing how impossible it would be to obtain one without writing it myself. I had planned on sulking, but the plot bunnies took over my brain, and this took up a large chunk of my November. I debated with myself about posting it for a long while but I thought to myself, "Maybe there's someone else out there in the world who wants this with a burning like I do." Anyway, the only other thing I have to say is don't read unless you want spoilers. They abound especially for RocknRolla. Also, there's a definite stronger focus on the Sherlock world throughout the story. I might write a companion piece or some drabbles to sort of get into the RocknRolla parts a bit more later on.

The thing about most junkies is that almost everyone expects them to fall off the wagon at some point.

Some of them, like Johnny Quid, don’t seem to stand a chance. He claimed to quit everything sure, but when your only comrades are gangsters, some of whom deal drugs, and rock stars, many of whom do drugs, the deck is fairly well stacked against you. Still, a pack of cigarettes a day wasn’t bad for someone with all the temptation in the world at their feet. He’d been faring well, despite the odds, but if those in his crowd actually cared about him, they’d shake their heads and say “give it time.”

When he disappeared for the umpteenth time, some said it was a honeymoon with the crack pipe. One person even crooned out “Reunited and it feels so good.” Some members of The Wild Bunch, one of London’s seediest groups of gangsters, managed in their manly way to show concern. Johnny had figured in some of their craziest incidents. Only one person, one person in the entirety of London had some sort of twisted hope that Johnny hadn’t relapsed.

Archy: high up there gangster. Archy, uncle Arch, steely faced, deep voiced Archy. He was on top of the underworld, at least the old school underworld. (There was a newer, more organized and psychopathic underworld that was emerging and unlike the Russians, who were just a moneyed nuisance, had some men scared. Not Archy.) No, he was the one who put the moron in rehab, probably the only person who cared in a vaguely affectionate way. Johnny had not relapsed. He knew when he saw the cigarettes sitting on Johnny’s dresser that he was kidnapped, murdered maybe. (God knows enough people thought he was enough of a twat to kill him.) Not off in a drug filled haze. Call it mob boss’s intuition, if you will, but he knew.

But what the fuck was he supposed to do? Last time Johnny went missing there was system upheaval. Last time it took for fucking ever to find him. Last time it was the drugs.

No, Archy wasn’t going to rely on his own men or the idiots in the Wild Bunch to figure it out. It was, quite frankly, embarrassing how many times a day he had to slap someone across the face. He needed a professional- but not the police- God no, not them.

What was it those homeless crackheads always mentioned? A man with a website who handed them 50 pound notes, a man who knew things, who worked with the police, actually outworked Scotland Yard, but for motives besides the greater good.

Archy, formerly known as Archibald, found himself in search of help from this man. Another recovering addict, one with some strange connection to the government and more brains than Archy’s thugs could handle. A man just as volatile as Johnny Quid but worse, a man who could see through you with a glance and who could probably tear Archy’s whole system apart, finding out every sin he ever committed. (And there was many.) Archy hoped then, that the case would be interesting enough, the connection with danger extreme enough – that the world’s only Consulting Detective would take it.


	2. Chapter 2

**Abandoned Warehouse: Location Unknown**

            When the elevator opened, Archy wasn’t surprised to see the boys enter with two hooded men instead of one. He hated that they still used the same abandoned building used by his predecessor, Lenny Cole for this kidnapping and interrogation business. His mouth twisted wryly around the toothpick in his mouth as he mulled over this fact. Then he remembered that it was also the same locale as where they got rid of Lenny; that made him smile. An Archy smile isn’t far away from a scowl.

            “The little one kicks,” one of the men commented, pushing the shorter hooded man off to the side and straight onto the other, lankier man.

            One of his companions showed a bleeding wound on his right hand.

            “The tall git bites.”

            Archy threw his toothpick on the ground.

            “I know where we are,” the tall man exclaimed, his voice was deep and carried something akin to posh tones, “and if you want us to be of any use, would you take these hoods off. Honestly, I’ve met more competent thirteen year old shoplifters.”

            “Oi,” the injured man exclaimed.

            Archy agreed.

            “Take the hoods off then.”

            They removed the hood from the kicker first. Disoriented, dazed, rather angry. This was not the man Archy needed. Possible leverage then. The second man gave a haughty look, with all the contempt of a housecat, a very spoiled cat at that.

            “You must be Mr. Holmes then,” Archy said, raising a brow, “and your companion here must be your blogging doctor.”

            “Congratulations,” the haughty man hissed, “some idiots don’t do their research before the kidnapping.”

            “Do you want to go for a dip in the Thames?” one of the goons exclaimed.

            “Please, if you were going to do anything, you wouldn’t achieve anything by harming me. You’d be far more likely to do something to John.”

            “Sherlock,” his companion mumbled.

            “I don’t intend to harm either of you,” Archy replied, “We can and likely will but.”

            “Of course, you probably need me. I’m flattered, honestly, now the criminals need me when they get over their heads.”

            “There’s nothing illegal about this.”

            “No, I’d imagine not, save the kidnapping bit, of course. This is something legal, something worrisome. You’d have handled it yourself if it were a matter of dunking enough people in crawfish infested waters, and you can hardly contact the police. Besides their general incompetence, you’re a hardened criminal, can’t have them catch you. But you’re worried, on a personal level.”

            Archy gritted his teeth. Maybe a dip in the Thames would serve this bastard well after all. He turned his back to the visitors.

            “How many toothpicks have you chewed through today? You were obnoxiously gnawing on one when we came in.”

            He turned around and faced the set jaw and defiant eyes of one Sherlock Holmes. His companion would likely be covering his face in something akin to mortification if his hands weren’t still secured behind his back.

            “You stand square and tall,” Sherlock commenced, “an overwhelming figure. You’re probably in charge of these morons. Head Idiot of the mob then, but you’re young so you have to assert yourself. Under normal conditions you can’t show nervousness, so you chew on toothpicks. It’s likely a Freudian oral fixation of yours.”

            “It’s time for you to stop talking and listen,” Archy stated.

            “If I don’t?”

            “We kill John here and torture you until you agree to.”

            “Untie my hands and we’ll negotiate.”

            “That’s the spirit,” Archy answered with a grin.

            The kicked man untied both men. John rubbed his wrists, attempting to alleviate the rope burns he had contracted in his struggle. Sherlock immediately straightened his suit and sauntered towards Archy.

            “Take a walk with me, then,” Archy said, mostly wanting to push the prat right into the cold water.

            Sherlock strutted until he was face to face with Archy but John stayed obediently behind, hands folded in front of him.

            “Join us, Doctor Watson, I need you to control your colleague.”

            John strode forward at this command. Archy had seen plenty of military men before, usually those turned back on the streets with nothing to lose, and ending up either as a gangster, dead, or worse. He had to admire this man utilizing his dignified stride to embody self-protection rather than harm. It was stupidity in this world, of course, but admirable stupidity.

            “There’s been a disappearance.”

            “Obviously,” Sherlock scoffed.

            “Johnny Quid.”

            “The guy from The Quidlickers?” John cut in.

            Sherlock gave a somewhat surprised look, which was more judgmental than anything else, with his eyebrows raised arrogantly.

            “I was in Afghanistan with a lot of younger blokes, they like a bit of rock ‘n roll, you learn how to relate.”

            “Honestly John, mindless sex and violence driven pop culture?”

            “That one,” Archy interposed. “Two days ago. Rumor has it he fell off the wagon.”

            “But you don’t believe it,” Sherlock sneered. “How sentimental.”

            “He’s my responsibility.”

            “You’re the one who sent him to rehab then, assuming it was an actual facility, which is what all your rock stars do, or so I hear. Likely you’re the only remaining authority figure in his drug addled life. He’s not actual kin – or at least not anyone you are proud of – but he’s probably a fixture in your life.”

            “Anything else I already fucking know?”

            “You’re new to this position. Judging by your approximate muscle mass, you likely use violence to assert power. You also included John in this discussion and acknowledge his importance to me. Right hand man then, formerly, used for intimidation, possibly to handle the dirty parts of business. The regard for Mr. Quid coupled with the sense of responsibility with no indication of familial relationship indicates he was connected to your predecessor.”

            Archy, on the outside at least, ignored the man. “His entire home was left intact – not a single possession out of place.”

            “He’s likely on a bender, as you call them. I am not running through the slums of London looking for an idiot junkie. They always start up again.”

            “Honestly Sherlock,” John said, looking up at his friend, “you of all people talking like this about junkies?”

            “I said idiot junkies.”

            “You’re calling someone who you have never met an idiot?”

            “I don’t need deductive reasoning to know that a member of the human population is an idiot.”

            “Tell us more about this disappearance,” John recommenced.

            “I would have guessed a bender myself but there are two things. Cigarettes. He left all of his behind.”

            “Nicotine patches are much more efficient,” Sherlock murmured.

            “And his painting. He’s infatuated, crackhead Johnny especially so. He stole it last time. Still hanging on his wall.”

            “I’m touched by the sentimentality of you old-fashioned gangsters.”

            “I haven’t heard a no yet, Mr. Holmes.”

            “I’ll find this man for you, it shouldn’t take long. I wouldn’t ordinarily, but I will either get to see you down a notch or end up with an ally in the criminal class. I could always use more connections. Tell me, how many government officials have you corrupted?”

            “Sherlock, no. This isn’t another round in your lifelong pissing contest,” John reprimanded.

            “The idiots of Scotland Yard don’t have anything for me, so I’ll have to go right to the criminals.”

            “That has nothing to do with what I just said.”

            “Yes, Mr-“

            “Archy,” the stern man replied.

            “Yes, Archy, we will find this man, whether he be dead or alive, and when we do, I expect your full cooperation as a contact.”

 

 **The Speeler**

            “What sort of place is this?” John commented, standing in the doorway of a dive- something or other.

            “The Speeler, home of what our client calls “The Wild Bunch” an allegedly nefarious group that Mr. Quid seems to have grown fond of,” Sherlock rattled off.

            “Nefarious?”

            “Likely amateurs at best. Come on, John.”

            “Not until you tell me why you’re doing this. Archy, he has how many men? Probably some of these guys are his too. They’d find this guy, probably in some alley with a crack pipe.”

            “I thought it was me who didn’t care about people.”

            “I just need to know that this isn’t just a way of trying to get at a certain sibling of yours, taking on the government by aiding criminals.”

            “There is a missing man, this is criminal against criminal, likely. Very dangerous. I needed a case that wasn’t boring, and this will give me at least one mad dash through London.”

            “Then put your collar down, they’ll think you look like a ponce.”

            Sherlock cast a judgmental eye down on his cable-knit clad companion before leading the way through the doorway.

 

 

            The room was loud and smoke filled, more dingy than inherently seedy. Some of the men seemed average, the type who’d shown up just to watch rugby or play cards with some mates. No one had the Archy eagle eyed death stare, at least. John positioned himself standing in a far corner, out of the way and with his back to the wall. From his position, he could command a full view of both a television and Sherlock’s face, as the other man engaged in a game of cards with some men.

            It didn’t take long for Sherlock to figure out the three men in front of him. Cookie, the man to his left, was a drug dealer and recovering junkie himself, or so he said. (Not the first part, of course, but his pretension at carrying himself well and clandestine nods at other men seemed to make that clear.) Next was Mumbles, who was much easier to deduce. Made up of mostly good stuff, street smart but never one for logical thinking. (His card moves were impulsive and often right, but there was no thought behind them). He was also a conversationalist. It was with him that the most of the discourse fell. The third man, Roger, was new. That was easy enough to tell. His posture was rigid, as though he was still at the point of asserting himself. (Almost everyone else in the room slouched or slumped, save John looking ridiculously out of place in the corner.) Roger also tended to avert his eyes when someone who seemed dangerous looked his way. (A good way to deduce who is actually a threat or an active participant in criminal activities.)

            “Johnny went missing all the time back when,” Mumbles explained, “Wasn’t really our business though, different circles as you’d say. It was in our own best interest to stay away. But the last time, Lenny Cole, his step-father, we owed him somethin’ and things got a bit fucked up. Johnny and us, we have an understanding since then.”

            “And Lenny Cole is deceased?”

            “Tragic accident that was,” Mumbles replied with mock reverence and a glimmer in his eye.

            Roger decided then was the time for him to speak.

            “Never met the man myself, but if he’s worse than that Archy fellow, I wouldn’t want to. Arch has been hell to deal with.”

            “What do you do?”

            “Property management,” Mumbles began, “for now. Very business-like, official things. We’re very good with handling money.”

            “I’m sure. Do you all work together?”

            “My partners are One Two,” he gestured to a man across the room who was arguing over the phone (most likely with a female romantic partner), “and Handsome Bob.”

            Mumbles gestured then, oddly enough, in John’s direction where a plaid clad man seemed to be engaging him in conversation. It must have been stimulating at least, with John blushing clear behind his ears and looking wildly around the room.

            “You work out at all, John?” Bob said to him.

            “Running, sometimes” was the curt reply.

            “I always like to see a bloke who is a bit thicker. Give me your mobile.”

            “Not a good idea, my flatmate is always borrowing it.”

            “Does the ponce delete numbers then?”

            John at least had the satisfaction of his ponce theory being proven.

            “He hasn’t yet,” John replied, more tight lipped than before, but still pulling the phone out of his pocket.

            “Then I’ll take my chances.”

            Bob had taken it out of John’s hand, shook it teasingly at him and began typing in a number. When he finished, he tossed it back to John, who scrambled to grasp it in his not surprisingly sweaty palms.

            “Excuse me for interrupting,” Sherlock spoke, somehow having transported himself across the room in near silence, “my colleague and I must be going.”

            “Ta-ta John,” Bob said in sing-song.

            Sherlock paused. “Is that your coat?” He cocked his head towards a coat hung haphazardly over a nearby chair.

            “Like it then, pretty boy? It was a present, not everyone has your fine taste,” Bob licked his full lips, “in coats, that is.”

            As they left, John liked to imagine that Sherlock’s coat had even more of a dramatic swish than it had ever before.

            “You’re going on a date with that Neanderthal,” Sherlock began once there were safely on the street.

            “No,” a pause, “I don’t date criminals.”

            “You said yourself that it’s all fine.”

            “Right, well let’s just assume that it isn’t a problem that he’s a criminal and completely ignore the fact that he probably served time.”

            “Wrong! Your Handsome Bob, according to the files I pulled while you were busy flirting is one of the only active members of the Wild Bunch who has not been to prison.”

            “Comforting.”

            “The fact that these men accept an openly homosexual man into their testosterone filled heteronormative society shows loyalty, it will be easier to get information out of them in an individual situation. Bob’s coat, furthermore, is a very expensive present. None of these men wear anything of the quality, only people within the actual organization of organized crime wear designer labels. This implies that the present may be from someone honestly moneyed, but he didn’t say who. It has to be fairly secret then and perhaps worth knowing.”

            John sighed. “He said he liked me because I was thick.”

            “Is your ego that fragile? An idiot called you stupid, you’re all stupid.”

            “No, thick.” John stopped and made a gesture to demonstrate a potbelly. “I’m not dating a man, even if it is a sham, because he thinks I’m chubby.”

            “His primary attraction isn’t in heavier men. You would have been able to tell if you looked closer.”

            “Even more comforting.”


	3. Chapter 3

**221B Baker Street**

            “What the hell do I tell this bloke?”

            “Give him a place and a time, make it within the next few hours.”

            “Tonight?” John felt the hours of crap telly slipping away.

            “It’s for a case, we’re on a case.”

            “No, this is not a case. This is you doing favors for the mafia.”

            “Please, John, they’re not the mafia. That should be obvious, even to you.”

            “Well let me be right before I have to go out with this man,” he twisted up his face, vaguely repulsed, “and have to whatever. I’ll- you owe me something. No body parts in the fridge for a month.”

            “Fine.”

            John pulled out his phone and searched for the new contact.

            “Oh look, it says Bob with a winky face at the end,” he groaned. “Where do you take this sort to eat?”

            His flatmate, already sinking into thought-mode on the couch, didn’t offer a reply.

            Angelo’s? No, it would taint his favorite restaurant forever. Plus, Angelo was still oblivious to the nature of his relationship with Sherlock and would suspect infidelity. Do criminals like Italian? Perhaps someplace for chips, then. No, Italian, alright. He typed out a brief message.

 

 _Francesco’s. 7. John._

 

It seemed incomplete, so he added two characters.

 

 _Francesco’s. 7. John. ;)_

 

Sent.

 

“Texting, John? You’re such a tease.”

“I’m going for coy so that at the end of the evening I can just write this whole thing off as a misunderstanding and he hopefully won’t have his mob buddies beat me to a pulp. I’m going to change and possibly kill myself. The suicide note will be on my bed and it will say ‘My flatmate hooked me up with a gangster. It is because of him that I am doing this.’”

“Dramatic.”

John ascended the stairs to his bedroom and pulled off his jumper. With a nice girl he might leave it on – cuddly, soft, secure, cable knit. He didn’t want to think about how to dress for this man, mostly he deserved a slap across the face or a punch to the bollocks. John mused on this as he unbuttoned his shirt and began to question whether he was referring more to Bob or Sherlock. As he began undoing his belt, Sherlock appeared in his doorway, holding a navy blue handkerchief.

“Wear this,” he held it out. “Back right pocket.”

“Right. Okay. Why?”

“It’s the hanky code. Your date wears a navy hanky in his left back pocket.”

“Which means?”

John stood frozen with his hands on his belt.

“Your Handsome Bob is advertising his interest in casual sex. He wears his hanky in his left pocket, navy because he is seeking anal intercourse, left side because he is looking to top.”

John’s face blanched completely.

“You’re asking me to go out in public and show the world, falsely so, that I desire gay casual sex and that I bottom?”

“Is it the homosexual sex or the position that bothers you, John?”

“Both. Neither. Sherlock, I can’t pass this off as a misunderstanding. Maybe to Bob but not to all of London.”

“Please, the average idiot doesn’t know about this code. Only those that practice it do.”

John rebuckled his belt, which he had been gripping so hard that all the color had left his hands.

“Not changing into date trousers,” he mumbled, snatching the hanky and shoving it into his pocket. “You owe me so much.”

“No body parts in the fridge. One month.”

“Two months.”

Sherlock smirked and practically skipped down the stairs. It would be one week at best.

“Hey, why the hell do you know this?” John called after him. ‘And why do you have one of these?”

“Genius,” was his reply. “And by the way John, your body is perfectly acceptable, not thick in the wrong sense at all.”

 

 **Francesco’s**

            Bob was surprisingly on time. He was still dressed in plaid, but smelt strongly of aftershave. There was a toothpick wedged between his teeth and he gave a devilish grin when John walked up to the table.

            “Surprised you texted so soon,” he said in lieu of a greeting.

            “Yeah, I, uh don’t like to wait for these sorts of things.”

            “Impatient?”

            “Something like that.”

            John slid into the chair across from Bob, who immediately rubbed his leg against the newcomer.

            “I thought you were with that ponce from earlier, the way he glared daggers at me.”

            “If he isn’t doing that it means he wants something out of you.”

            “Then he’s your?”

            John could never place a finger on the proper title. Constant pain-in-the ass? Overgrown charge? Prat who occasionally made him feel like a twelve year old in every way possible?

            “Sherlock and I are, it’s difficult to label what we are.”

            “I fancied my best mate too. Still do but I have Bertie now and he has-”

            “Not like that,” John cut him off. “No fancying. We’re flatmates and colleagues, and though I at times loathe to admit it, friends.”

            “Right.”

            “Who’s Bertie?”

            “It’s complicated,” Bob teased, his voice low and almost predatory. “Open relationship. He’s married and,” he lowered his voice here, “on the right side of the law, so I’m free to see blokes like you.”

            At this, Bob’s foot rubbed up the entirety of John’s calf. Right, a punch in the bollocks for both Bob and Sherlock.

            “Your profession is?” Bob asked.

            “Doctor, nothing much now. I was in the military, an army doctor.”

            “Mad capers around London with a posh giant was my wager. Looking for rock stars on the side.”

            John began tapping his fingers on the table.

            “Johnny’s a proper bloke at heart, but your friend’s not getting anything out of it. He’s a junkie. It was Archy that put you up to this, right?”

            “Kidnapped us.” There was an air of nonchalance to this statement that John didn’t like.

            “Hoods and all? Archy’s a bastard and he’ll fuck up the whole system but he gets things done. He’s fairer than Lenny was.” Bob paused here. “One Two, Mumbles, and me, we were all caught up in the thing with the Russian. I saved us at the end.”

            “Dangerous life, yours must be.”

            “Mine’s not the only one.”

            John felt his phone vibrate in his pocket and pulled it out.

 

 _Invite him up after. SH_

 _No. I want to have a beer and sleep this off._

 

            “Danger isn’t really my thing,” John replied, putting his phone away until it vibrated again.

            “Doubtful.”

 

 _No parts in fridge and a clean kitchen. SH_

 _Still not convinced._

 _Yes you are. SH_

 

            They both ordered spaghetti and talked about James Bond films. They talked about their hatred for the wine and preference for beer, but at some point, John managed to drink three glasses. When they left, it was in the same cab headed for Baker Street with the promise of a bottle or two of the preferred beverage.

 

 **221B Baker Street**

            “The place may be a mess, and my flatmate has eccentric living habits. He likely won’t be in.”

            “I like the risk.”

            They ascended the stairs. John could feel the eyes clamped appreciatively on his arse. Sherlock had won the battle, so he gave in, giving a cute wiggle towards the stop of the stairs. There was no turning back after this.

            “Sherlock,” he called with a roll of his eyes that Bob could not see. “I’m home and I’ve a date with me. Do you mind?”

            “Of course not,” his flatmate replied, smug look on his face as he stood by the window. “I picked up some beer while you were out.”

            “Sit on the sofa,” John ordered Bob. “I’ll grab us some.”

            Bob sat on the far left side of the leather sofa, instantly sinking in comfortably, his legs spread out. John ducked into the kitchen and returned with two bottles, handing Bob a barely cold bottle and began to sit himself.

            “John,” Sherlock began.

            “Bloody,” he mumbled, walking over to hand his bottle to his friend before trekking into the kitchen for a replacement.

            “That’s not what I wanted. You know I rarely drink, let alone when on a case.”

            “Drink,” John commanded, finally sinking down on the sofa next to Bob. He placed his free hand on Bob’s thigh.

            “You two seem to get on quite nicely.”

            “We do,” Bob replied, before taking a drink of his beer.

            The first attempt at drinking was purely for his own enjoyment, the second, with lips pouted and ending with a “pop” had another connotation altogether. John took his hand off the other man’s thigh, which Bob reciprocated by placing his own hand on John’s knee. John was going to remove it, but he was distracted by the way Sherlock brought his bottle to his lips. Tentative at first, he swallowed his beer like it was below him but after he discovered that he liked the taste he took a hearty swallow, his lips lingering on the bottle for a few moments after. John found himself attempting to mimic the gulp without success.

            “Do you mind if I ask you how long you’ve been out?” Sherlock began.

            “Oi, my business, nancy. Perhaps I’d ask you the same.”

            “Cheeky.” Another swig, less of a pause afterwards.

            “If you figured you’d question me while I’m here, have at it. But some things I don’t need to air to you.”

            “You parade your sexuality in your back pocket.”

            “Not the only one,” was the retort.

            John was fairly certain that he swallowed half of his beer at that moment.

            “Yes, misleading poor John who wants a good time, when you clearly have a romantic partner.”

            And there slipped his last shred of dignity.

            “John knows about Bertie,” Bob cocked his head.

            “Bertie is Bob’s boyfriend, who is married, it’s an open arrangement,” John interjected.

            “Man or woman?”

            “Woman,” Bob replied with a naughty rise of his eyebrows.

            “And she’s aware of this?”

            “Beard, got a bloke of her own. Takes him for a wild ride.”

            “And Bertie is a what then?”

            “Not telling you about the bloke for your case, bollock off. He’s not part of this.”

            “If he has any sort of connections it could move things along smoothly, go along the corrupted current of information, not the pure one. Utilizing clean sources may not bode well for some people involved.”

            Bob laughed. “Archy will have you both shot before you can move, he’s a right bastard.”

            “Are you willing to risk that I don’t have dangerous connections of my own?”

            Something about the steely gaze shot through Bob. “Bertie’s a criminal lawyer.”

            “Excellent, narrows it down considerably. Give me an address and you can be on your way.”

            “Oi, I’m on a date, not a business meeting. Sod off.”

            “I could pay you if that’s what you require, of couse,” Sherlock sneered, “I doubt you’re far above begging.”

            “I don’t want what you have to offer, nancy.”

            “Honestly, you common criminals are the most idiotic of all. How can you manage to evade the police for so long is beyond even my powers. I’m deeply appalled at the amount of idiocy on both sides of the legal system in this city.”

            “Christ Sherlock,” John exclaimed, softly rubbing the bridge of his nose. He looked up and leaned forward. Luckily, the three glasses of wine and half a beer had lowered his inhibitions just enough. “Bob.”

            He grabbed the back of Bob’s head, pulling it towards his own. Bob took the hint and actually started the kiss, lips on lips, open mouthed, close mouthed, open, closed. It was a battle, until John ended it with a nibble on Bob’s bottom lip.

            Sherlock looked at them with wide eyes. He could not possibly have anticipated that. When the shock was over, a different emotion overcame him. He collected that emotion just as quickly.

            “Address?”

            “Bugger off.”

            Bob leaned forward, lips parting slightly.

            “No,” both other men stated at once.

            “Tease.”

            “Bob, you’re a nice bloke,” John said, falling into a more normal tone, “help us and we’ll finish our beers. I can put on the telly, and if you’re very lucky I might kiss you again.”

            “You swear this won’t get back to me, I’ll help,” Bob said, as tentatively as his voice could manage.

            “I will.”

            Bob put his hands on his head and groaned, “Always, always the wrong men.”

            When the address was procured and Bob sent home with a very confusing pat to the arse, John settled down with another beer on the far right of the couch. Sherlock flopped his entire body on the couch, feet in his friend’s lap.

            “Thank God you hate shoes,” John commented. “Where did you go tonight?”

            “Possible victim’s house. It was best to go alone, I had to deal with Archy again, didn’t need him threatening you more than possible. The cigarettes were untouched, as said. Not much to go off of, but I can do it. The painting was hideous, brush strokes a three year old could produce. He’d have to be under the influence in order to find it aesthetically appealing.”

            “Anything else?”

            “I spoke to a maid. She was young, actually dressed in a French maid costume. She’d had intercourse with the missing man within the last five days. I asked about visitors, last two were a young man from a fellow band and Roger, a member of the Wild Bunch. The newest man in the group, which is dually odd as the relationship between the missing and that class of criminals dates before Roger’s introduction and I am doubtful this man, with so few common visitors, would let the most recent addition into his inner circle.”

            “Human connections can be spontaneous.”

            “Unlikely. Mr. Quid is attempting to re-launch his successful music career, this time promoting a cleaner image. He still is hoping to maintain his proceedings with the criminal world, but in order to maintain both, he has to maintain a double life. He would go to the Wild Bunch, but they would not go to him. Look at how carefully your Bob tried to protect his boyfriend and he is the one with nothing to lose in the admission of that connection.”

            “He’s not my Bob,” John protested.

            “Judging by the way you kissed him, I would say there’s at least a 75% chance you’re physically attracted to him, even at the basest non-sexual level.”

            “He’s a fit bloke, yes, but I kissed him because it got the job done, it gave me time to enjoy a beer in relative peace, and so I didn’t have to deal with him breaking your nose or you getting my gun out and killing a man in our living room.”

            “Even assuming I would get caught for murder, I wouldn’t waste risking it on killing that man of all people. John, bring me my nicotine patches and the two CDs on the kitchen table.”

            “You sat down last, you can get up.”

            “Thinking,” Sherlock replied, closing his eyes.

            John shoved his flatmate’s feet aside.

            “I’m going to bed. We’re going to this lawyer’s house tomorrow, yes?”

 

            John woke up twice throughout the night. The first was to hear the loud blaring of a song by The Quidlickers he was somewhat familiar with. All he could hear was fuck repeated time and time again, with the other words fading into the background as monosyllablic mush. The next time, he woke up from one of his customary nightmares and Sherlock was in his doorway.

            “Next time you go off with a criminal like that, bring your gun,” he demanded.

            “Right, always bring your illegal firearm on a first date.”

            “Not all of these men are as loyal as dogs. Archy is simple-minded, loyal enough to the old fashioned criminal tradition. Others might be tempted to move on to something else, someone else.”

            “Oh,” John said.

            He could hear the same song as before playing in the background, more soft than before, and because of it more easily decipherable. _Fuck the system fuck the rights baby let’s fuck tonight. Burn this city down, rock n’ roll, baby let’s fucking make it right._

            “Could you turn that down?” John added. “Some of us have to sleep, case or no.”

            “I thought you liked this music.”

            “Knowing about and liking are not the same thing.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a head's up that this chapter includes some of my own interpretations of the ending of RocknRolla with regards to Stella. When there had been plans to make a sequel, Thandie Newton was in talks to be in it, which lead to my headcanon of her being very much so still alive. (And really, try to tell me that two Russians could actually take her down. I think not.)

**Bertie and Stella’s Flat**

Bertie wasn’t home the next day. His wife, Stella, had reasonably assured Sherlock and John that he would be back within fifteen minutes if they’d wait kindly. She knew they were asking for him before they even spoke. Stella was, in short, incredibly unnerving.

            She led the two men through a doorway into a sitting room and then to a couch and gestured for them to sit, before taking a position near a window. John took the option of sitting, letting out a breath as he sunk into the leather. Sherlock preferred stalking around the room in a manner that he probably deemed polite. Their hostess didn’t speak, but instead leaned against the edge of the couch farthest from John, letting her gaze, which flashed from seductive to judgemental in turns, flicker between the two men.

            “I don’t think I caught your names,” Stella began, her voice velvety and posh.

            “We never gave them,” Sherlock answered.

            “You’re awfully posh for a secretive man.”

            “You’re awfully posh for a beard with a poorly concealed pregnancy. It throws off the image you’re attempting to maintain every time your fingers twitch, like they’re missing a cigarette. Not to mention, your clothing choices denote an attempt to look sexy but conceal something, but the way they are cut shows concealing something in particular. Congratulations.”

            “You’re smart, I should warn my husband.”

            Stella gave the slightest hint of a smile.

            “We-”

            At that moment the door opened.

            “Bertie, there are two men to see you,” Stella said, her voice not rising above its normal tone.

            “Who can it be?” a voice replied, equally as posh, but with more curiosity than sensuality.

            Bertie entered the room, suited and looking professionally friendly. But not so friendly that anyone would dare touch him without permission.

            “Strangers, exciting,” he said, upon observing his guests. “Do you want something, wine, scotch? I know Mrs. Baxter’s company can be quite diverting in comparison, but I must offer you something as guests.”

            “We’re here strictly on,” John began, clearing his throat, “business. We may need your help.”

            “And this warranted more than a call or a visit to the office?”

            “We’re not in need of legal help, quite the opposite.”

            “On whose behalf?”

            “A mutual connection. We need information.”

            “Info?” Bertie asked, leaning forward on the couch.

            “We’re looking for a missing man, someone you may be familiar with, a Johnny Quid,” Sherlock stated. “I understand there might be some connections between your circle and his. People who, if we go about this the proper way, may end up inconvenienced. You don’t appear to have the scruples some people in your position may have with handling confidential documents.”

            “What do you need?”

            Bertie looked up then, impressed by the height and cold composure of the man in front of him.

            “Files on every known member of the group known as the Wild Bunch, as well as the records of any proceedings involving rock stars and the use of drugs within the last year. Also a promise of further cooperation, should the need arise.”

            “Consider it done.”

            Bertie gave a dismissive wave of his hand.

            “Ah, if only things stayed that simple,” John half mumbled, preparing to rise off the couch.

            “Which of you had to charm Bob to get in contact with me?”

            John stopped short, his face growing red.

            “We’re having a party tonight,” Stella interjected. “We could always use more dangerous men.”

            “I don’t think we shou-”

            “Of course,” Sherlock interjected. “We have work to do before this evening’s events. I’ll need the papers by then.”

 

 **221B Baker Street**

            Work included fetching pens and making copious amounts of tea, at least for John. Sherlock sat in a meditative mode, occasionally speaking about something seemingly unrelated to the case altogether, save a few strange facts. A list of famous rock stars who died of overdose. How Bertie’s tone of voice clearly showed that he longed to be thought dangerous, and how the wife was the one to watch for. What the last outfit Johnny Quid was seen in seemed to say about the probability of him leaving of his own choice.

            It would have been a relief to get out of the flat for the night, save the fact that it was only to go to a posh party with criminals, and perhaps even worse, lawyers as the other guests.

            “Why are we going to this party when we’re on a case?” John asked.

            He stood in the living room, wearing his only single colored shirt (that hadn’t been destroyed in the last months by falling into the Thames, experiments involving acid, or some horrible half arsed stake-out involving a giant birthday cake.)

            “Unbutton the top button and put on a suit jacket,” Sherlock critiqued. “We’re going to this event because it is an opportunity to further question some people who may be involved with the disappearance as well as to retrieve the papers which Bertie has procured for us.”

            “Right well,” John began, fumbling with his top button, “I’m not flirting with anyone tonight, unless I want to.”

            “I didn’t force you to kiss Bob last night, or to send him off with an arse pat. All you did was take a man out to dinner.”

            “Some people expect those things on a date. Normally, I would expect those things, but my flatmate crashes my actual dates and uses my love life to get connections to gangsters.”

            “Please, I’d hardly consider those dates, John. Now finish getting dressed, we’re leaving immediately.”

 

 **Bertie and Stella’s Flat**

            The music was atrocious and the people were barely approachable, but John could handle that for a case. What he couldn’t handle was when, upon opening the door to a second story bedroom, (he was looking for a bathroom at the time), seeing a young man with no pants and a slightly older woman in underwear and high heels snorting cocaine off the navel of another young woman, lying on the bed in an equal state of undress and giggling.

            He hastily closed the door and hurried into the nearest room, praying that this time he’d hit the proper room. Luckily, he did. After finishing up, he headed downstairs, intending to find Sherlock and through some means, God knows how, go back to the flat. When he found his friend, he was leaning against a wall, engaged in conversation with Mumbles and another man from the Wild Bunch.

            “Sherlock, can I have a word?”

            “Go on.”

            “There are people doing certain activities upstairs of the illegal variety that I don’t think we should continue our exposure to,” he said, attempting to be quiet but having to speak over the music.

            “I came to this party fully aware of such drug-related activities, John. It’s only half ten and I have work to do.”

            “You’re the fellow that went out with our Bob last night, ain’t you?” Mumbles asked.

            John was able to control his embarrassment at this point, enough to notice that the other man seemed a little uneasy at this.

            “Wouldn’t take you for a poof on first glance,” Mumbles continued. “You’re only half, right?”

            “I don’t think we’ve been introduced,” John changed the subject.

            “One Two,” the other man spoke at last, “and this is Mumbles. We’re Bob’s mates.”

            Alright, John could manage this.

            “Which of you two is it he fancies, then?”

            “He’s sharp, I like him,” Mumbles smirked, taking a drag from the cigar in his hand.

            “How did you two managed to get invited exactly?” One Two asked.

            “Your girlfriend asked us to come this afternoon,” Sherlock stated.

            “And how’d you figure that?”

            “People in relationships are terribly obvious. You have glanced in her direction at least eight times in the last five minutes, not enough to be sheer infatuation, but definite sexual interest. She always returns the looks, but is used to them. A familiar relationship, then. She’s married, obviously, so that means girlfriend.”

            “Right, good to know we have a proper genius to find Johnny, then,” One Two said with condescension hanging in his voice. Sarcasm. Not good.

            “I really find the whole dynamic fascinating. Your best mate who is in love with you has a relationship with the husband while you go off and shag and impregnate the wife.”

            Before anyone had time to reply, One Two’s fist made contact with Sherlock’s nose. Blood streamed down his face and the consulting detective slipped down the ground, mostly from losing his balance from the impact. The two other men were away in a moment.

            “Can’t say I blame him, you git,” John said, looking down at him. “Come on upstairs so I can look at it. With an impact like that he very well may have broken your nose.”

            John led his friend who looked, against all odds, embarrassed up the stairs and into the bathroom he had just exited a few minutes prior. He glared at the bedroom door before entering, as though that could ward off any activities going on in the room. Judging by the noises coming from it, the group had moved on from drugs to either a vigorous game of tennis or a ménage a trois.

            “Please tell me you at least knew he was going to punch you,” John said.

            He put down the toilet lid and gestured for Sherlock to sit on top of it.

            “I didn’t foresee that reaction but”

            John leaned down, examining his friend’s face closely.

            “Not broken, thank god, because we know how you are with injuries. Lean forward, then.”

            Sherlock leaned forward before John had the time to move away, their foreheads bumping together.

            “Ow,” John exclaimed. “Get up and stand over the sink. You can’t bleed on these nice people’s floor.”

            “You’re not a poof,” Sherlock said. “I don’t like that term, it’s completely idiotic in describing the situation of a homosexual man, and especially wrong for a man who isn’t one.”

            Despite that statement being one of the nicest things John had ever heard from his flatmate, at least sincerely, he started to laugh at the sound produced by his friend’s voice with his nose filled with blood. That was when he realized that they still were face to face. He jolted up, and made way for the other man to reach the sink.

            There was silence in the room and they could clearly hear the cries of the people in the room over. Society people were the oddest people of all, sometimes.

            “We’re going home after this. Go get the papers, these blokes aren’t leads, we’re out.”

            “Are you that concerned with the idea of me being in the same building as cocaine, John?”

            “Yes, as a matter of fact I am, especially since you’re on a case.”

            John stood at the edge of the sink, arms folded.

            “You have more faith that a rocker who associates with common thieves can stay clean than I can.”

            The tone of voice Sherlock used made it clear the bleeding had mostly stopped.

            “No, I’d just prefer you not be put in the path of temptation.”

            “I never give into temptation, not any more. All transport, remember?”

            “No, not all transport. Wash your face.”

            It was John, however, who reached for a towel and wetted it.

            “Here,” he said, gently wiping the blood from his friend’s face. “Half hour more, no more than that, and please don’t get hit by any more gangsters tonight.”

            “Only if you promise not to get hit on by any more of them.”

            “I can hope.”

            “I-I don’t like having you do those things, John. The case comes first, though, before your interests and mi-”

            The statement was interrupted by a rather loud orgasm the room over.

            “Oi, you better not be the ones making that racket,” someone exclaimed, pounding on the door. “I need to use the loo.”

            “Ah, your Handsome Bob appears to be at the party tonight,” Sherlock commented, returning to his regular cold demeanor.

            John blanched completely. This was too much humiliation, so much that he was almost at the point of completely cracking, going nutters and offing everyone involved. Instead, he went to the door and calmly opened it.

            Orgasm number two in the room over.

            With two men coming out of a bathroom at once, innocently enough, there was two ways to play this: tell the truth or roll with it. Bob would probably figure out the truth already, and Sherlock didn’t show embarrassment per se, but the last thing John needed was an extra sulky case-obsessed flatmate. Right then, kill two birds with one stone. Friend owes a favor, suitor off your tail.

            “I thought you two weren’t involved,” Bob said, his voice partially playful.

            “We weren’t,” John answered.

            At that, he took hold of his flatmate’s chin and pulled it down so that their faces were level. That was when the final orgasm came, the man’s, and louder than the other two. John blushed, and leaned over, kissing just to the right of the nearly puckered cupid’s bow lips.

            “Sod off, then,” Bob murmured, pushing through them into the bathroom.

            They both stepped over the doorway to promptly have the door slammed behind them.

            “That was unexpected,” Sherlock said.

            “Yeah, well, if it gets him off my case.”

            “It was also completely useless. If you meant to defend my honor, you can rest assured that he will know about the damage his friend enacted on my face and likely realize from the state of our clothing at the moment, we were likely not doing anything of the nature you implied. Bob might even find it endearing, the way you tease him.”

            “I’m not a tease.”

            Sherlock arched his right brow at John and began to make his way downstairs. If he only had thirty minutes left, he needed to start deducing immediately.

 

 **221B Baker Street**

            “When I say thirty minutes, I don’t mean thirty minutes of dancing with the hostess to piss off her boyfriend and then another two hours of offending people who can either kill you or land you in jail someday,” John exclaimed, as he closed the door to the flat.

            “Just an experiment to see if idiocy varies by social class,” Sherlock commented, disappearing into his room.

            “Yes, well, for someone who feels the need to remind me constantly that we’re on a case, you seemed to conveniently forget that there may have been a murderer or kidnapper present.”

            “I suspect there were several, but not necessarily the person we are looking for.”

            “You never cease to be of a comfort to me.”

            Sherlock re-emerged, clad in his pajamas and dressing gown. He had a folder in his hand, the one that Bertie had handed over to them as they left with a wink and an invitation to the next event.

            “Well, at least you had the sense to have your gun with you for once.”

            “I thought I was going to have to shoot some people, the way you were acting tonight.”

            John sat in a chair, the one that was implicitly his, and began to remove his shoes. Sherlock positioned himself in the middle of the couch, spreading the files out in front of him and steepled his fingers in thought. There was silence for a few minutes. The silence allowed what had passed to sink in, and John ended up frozen by the question that would inevitably come.

            “Why didn’t you kiss me, John?”

            “Didn’t?” John sputtered.

            “In the literal sense in which your lips touched part of my face, yes, you kissed me. What I’m curious about is what boundary kept you from, in common terms, going for it? I have no problem with using you for my cases, surely you shouldn’t have a problem using me for the same. It’s a universal sign of friendship.”

            “Using someone has nothing to do with friendship, Sherlock,” John said. “It has to do with being manipulative. I didn’t kiss you in that way because I didn’t want to and you didn’t want to but I had gone too far as it was.”

            “If one of us had desired it, would you have?”

            “No, I wouldn’t have. I’m going to bed.”

 


	5. Chapter 5

**221B Baker Street**

            John woke up at seven the next morning, hoping it was early enough in the morning that Sherlock had accidentally fallen asleep on the couch within the last two hours. Discreetly, not wanting to disturb the (hopefully) sleeping man, he proceeded with his morning routine, including his shower. He was so confident after a few minutes of being under wonderfully warm water that his flatmate was asleep, and equally frustrated by the variety of feelings inspired by the same man, that he had proceeded with what he called, in his head, a “hello good morning wonderful world wank.” That was precisely when, of course, Sherlock decided to burst in, impolitely, and then begin, with pretensions at politeness, to talk to John about what he had deducted from the files.

            “You were mostly correct, for once, John,” he began. “It wasn’t any of the actual members of the Wild Bunch. I knew it myself. There is one man, whoever, who stands out. Roger, you see, has no criminal record at all, the only one, and also the only one to be at the missing man’s house within the last few days.”

            John was listening as best as he could. If it were anyone else he could listen perfectly well, but at that moment he was busy trying to not actually hear the voice that was rumbling at him. The voice that had nearly miraculously brought back to life the erection that was killed by the surprise of the door opening.

            “What is even more interesting is that Roger used to run a website dedicated to a rival band of The Quidlickers. Not any rival band, either, but the one formerly fronted by Daniel Volatile, the other most recent visitor of Johnny Quid. John, are you even listening to me?”

            John had to suppress a groan.

“Yes, I’m listening. Why would a man not having a criminal record make him a criminal?”

            “Simple. Daniel Volatile is also a drug addict, only he’s not on the trail to recovery. He had been going to Johnny for some sort of guidance. There are articles upon articles about it on the internet. What is interesting is that Daniel is also working on his grand return to the music scene, but any efforts have received extremely negative reviews in the light of Johnny Quid’s new image. Apparently sober is a current fad in the music industry. Do you know who would most want Daniel’s band to succeed?”

            A pause.

            “John, I really don’t think you’re listening. I need an audience and as much as I loathe people speaking back, I’d prefer it if it meant you were listening to me.”

            “Those are all very pedestrian observations you’re making, Sherlock,” John hissed in reply.

            “They are and it’s terribly disappointing to me. Anyway, I contacted our new friend late last night and he pulled some strings to get me into more files. Honestly we need more lawyers in this world. It turns out that Roger, while never in trouble for crime, has been in and out of treatment for several mental conditions.”

            “Crazy doesn’t equal potential murderer,” John commented.

            “Of course not, he likely wouldn’t be on the level or murdering, but kidnapping perhaps. The strange thing, however, is that Roger slipped completely under the radar for the last few years, no word on him whatsoever. Old records show he was a very poor man, practically a beggar at times, but now, according to his psychiatrist, he seems to be living in a rather large, expensive house.”

            “You stole notes from his psychiatric appointments?”

            “Borrowed, John.”

            “Why are you even telling me all this? You’ll end up pulling something out of thin air and all of this will be completely irrelevant or you’ll need me to remember a minor detail from the whole thing and I won’t remember, so you’ll call me the biggest idiot in all of London or an absolute sodding moron.”

            “You usually get angry with me if I leave out details for you, I thought it would be convenient and efficient if I told you while you were preoccupied. I only had your interests in mind, John.”

            “Right, my interests, well, at the moment my only interest is finishing what I started and getting the fuck out of the shower so I can make breakfast that only I will eat and try to make as little noise as possible so that you can think.”

            “Finishing what you started?” Sherlock sounded vaguely curious.

            “I was _wanking,_ alright?”

            “Oh, well feel free to continue. I will be in my room listening to modern rock music if you need to see me. If not, I am sure I will see you sometime today.”

 

            The morning was supposed to be quiet. John had made himself breakfast and sat to enjoy a cuppa and the paper. Around that time, the noise began blasting from behind Sherlock’s door. It was infernally loud and infernally vulgar. Mrs. Hudson was likely to die from embarrassment on the way up the stairs to yell at him for listening to music so loudly.

            John knocked loudly on the bedroom door. No response.

            “Sherlock, you have to turn that music down. We have neighbors and imagine poor Mrs. Hudson hearing this trash,” he shouted at the door.

            A grunt was his reply.

            “This can’t be very good for your thought process at all, why the fuck is your music so loud?”

            John received a similar reply this time around. At this, he began to turn the handle, but found the door was locked.

            “Just please turn the music down before we get evicted or arrested for noise pollution.”

            Ten minutes later, the music was turned down to a more suitable volume and ten minutes after that, it was turned off completely. Sherlock emerged, looking unphased as always, dressed and looking fresh despite his apparent lack of sleep.

            “In your room if I need you?” John asked. “I needed you to turn off that bloody music.”

            “I heard you quite well, John, and I turned it down eventually.”

            “Yes, after not answering me and making me half deaf.”

            “I had other more pressing matters than your delicate sense of hearing.”

 

            Archy pulled up in front of the flat at almost exactly noon. It had been two full days since the beginning of the case, and he was beginning to become actually visibly nervous. He was welcomed into the flat as best as the tenants could manage, John retreating into the kitchen to produce some tea and Sherlock stalking about, completely ignoring the imposing man who had settled himself in John’s chair.

            “This apparent lack of progress doesn’t bode well for either of you,” Archy stated, in his drawling matter-of-fact tone.

            “How do you, ah, take your tea, Archy?” John called from in the kitchen.

            “Black,” Archy replied. “You don’t fuck around with this, Mr. Holmes.”

            “Yes, of course, I understand, killing and torture, but that leaves you and your Mr. Quid nowhere, and is completely useless for both of us. You’re wrong by default and I’m dead or maimed.”

            John came out of the kitchen holding two mugs, he handed one to Archy and placed the other on the coffee table. After going back into the kitchen for his own, he settled on the sofa.

            “Sit down, we have company,” he commanded his flatmate.

            “There is no room for me to lay down at present and I either need to lie or walk to think. If Archy insists we solve this immediately, as I’m sure he’s about to, I need to think as much as possible.”

            John moved down to the far side of the couch and placed his mug on the coffee table. Sherlock took this as an invitation and flopped on the couch, putting his feet on John’s lap in a too familiar way.

            “We have an adequate supply of furniture, you could have moved, John,” Sherlock commented.

            “I understand Mr. One Two and you got into a bit of a row last night,” Archy said. “He’s known to be testy.”

            “He’s not the first common street thug to lash out at me during a case, of course. I would have expected more cooperation from someone who seems to represent a certain class of criminal. Especially since I simply presented him with basic facts.”

            “I wouldn’t use Mrs. Baxter as a point anymore, Mr. Holmes, you could lose something you may need later in life. She’s more resourceful than the entire Wild Bunch.”

            “You’re here to check on our progress aren’t you? I admire your dedication to this man. Rest assured, we have made insurmountable progress.”

            “Really? Perhaps you two want to go for a dip after all, then.”

            “Your death threats are getting to be boring. At first you were borderline intimidating, now you just sound idiotic.”

            “We’re working on it,” John interjected. “We even have actual leads. It’s a process, and a complex one.”

            “I’ve seen the underbelly of this whole system time and time again,” Archy explained. “When men go missing, they only have a few days before they’re lost causes.”

            “If he’s dead, it hardly matters how long he’s been a lost cause,” Sherlock replied.

            “If he’s dead, I can at least know who to send off with him.”

            “Putting the criminal in the criminal justice. Honestly, Archy, you’re the most admirable crime lord I have encountered in a long time.”

            “Tomorrow night’s a bad night for swimming, boys,” Archy said.

            After that he rose out of the chair, nodded his good-byes, and showed himself out of the flat.

            “You make a bloke tea and he not only doesn’t drink it, but he threatens to drown you in the Thames,” John said with a slight smirk.

            He lifted up Sherlock’s legs and stood up. He took both Archy and Sherlock’s untouched tea mugs and wandered into the kitchen to rinse them out.

            “I wanted that,” Sherlock called.

            “No you didn’t. You weren’t going to drink it, and you only say you were going to in order to make my life more difficult.”

            “John, get your coat,” Sherlock said, this time peering into the kitchen. “We’re going to the Speeler.”

 

 **Location Unknown**  
            Archy hadn’t been kidnapped in any capacity since he was a young bloke. He was twenty the last time, barely worth anything in the hierarchy. It was part of the reason why he climbed toward the top at such a young age. He prided himself on his untouchability.

            So how the fuck did this happen?

            He got too confident, that’s how. Too comfortable in his world. A black car pulled up, he opened the door and climbed in, without hesitation.

            When he stepped out of the car, he checked that his gun was in his waistband. Maybe if he was forgetting to be careful in other ways, he’d have forgotten that too.

            “You don’t want to use that,” a voice echoed through the room.

            The rather expansive room, no, the car park.

            “No?” Archy replied.

            That was a challenge to him, and he managed to shift his jacket aside and place his hand on his gun.

            “No. You never know who is watching.”

            “I wager some prick with an umbrella.”

            At this he gestured at his captor, standing aloof in front of him. Archy knew this was a rehearsed technique, it played the same role as his crawfish feeding rituals. Intimidating but absolutely practiced time and time again.

            “Allow me to congratulate you, Archibald, on your not being caught up in something like this much sooner. I would like to say I was astonished by just how easily you got into the car, except you’re completely distracted and can’t bother with simple details at this time.”

            “And my car?”

            “Safely parked not far from where you left it. Your men were oddly compliant when flashed with a few government badges, perhaps you should reconsider the people you surround yourself with.”

            Archy defiantly produced a pack of cigarettes from his back pocket, pulled one out and lit it.

            “Which brings me conveniently to my next point,” the man continued. “Please put that out, Archibald. You are here because of your recent dealings with a certain Sherlock Holmes.”

            “Lovely chap, him, got a nice partner, little flat, posh coat.”

            “He also has an alarming tendency to get over his head in things which he has no business being a part of due to his overwhelming curiosity about the world. He has not been this deep with something of an illegal nature for years now.”

            “There’s nothing illegal about what I do.”

            “Of course,” this was accompanied by a sly smile. “In this one case I am going to turn a blind eye to you and your colleagues, because I think you can be of help in return. You and your kind are the old weed of the system, one that it can thrive with, part of its natural ecosystem. You seem to manage yourselves as well as the Russian imports quite nicely. But I am sure you are aware of the new criminal element in this city.”

            “We’re beyond that M word.”

            “That is why you are essential to this. Sherlock Holmes helps you, you promise to keep an ear on the ground for him and for me. I will expect you to report to me, and I will know if you do not.”

            “I don’t report to anyone, I’m done with that.”

            “You spent what, four years in prison? That must feel like a great injustice to you personally, within your personal set of rules. However, in the eyes of the government, you should be spending the rest of your life behind bars. I can guarantee that will not happen, barring you don’t commit any crimes outside of your normal sphere. If you don’t agree to this deal, though, I can have you and every man who ever associated with you shut away for the remainder of your pathetic lives.”

            “Big man with big threats.”

            “Say what you wish, but I can see from the look on your face that you’ve already agreed to everything, and I ask one more item. Revoke any threat you have against either Sherlock Holmes or his associate John Watson. Once they’re on the case, there’s no need for reinforcement, and it does not sit well with me to have threats placed against my interests.”

            “We’ve a deal. Can’t promise I won’t make threats, won’t make good on them. Violence is how the system operates, and the threat of violence can be worse than a fatal wound.”

            “Very well. I expect to see you again very soon.”

 

 **The Speeler**

            The room went completely quiet when they entered the Speeler for the second time. Everyone knew them now, at least by reputation: the stuffy posh git and the little tease in unassuming jumpers.

            “Why the fuck are we here again?” John muttered under his breath.

            “It’s the easiest way to gather information on our lead. I’ve outsourced everything Bertie has on the man, so we will have to rely on the information of the common man.”

            “Right well, let’s get this over with.”

            “Hello lovely,” Bob called from across the room.

            He swaggered over to the two men, casually chewing on a toothpick.

            “Didn’t think I’d see the likes of you two around here again.”

            “I didn’t expect so either,” John replied, casting a glance up at Sherlock.

            “Business, of course,” Sherlock said. “Some loose ends need tied up and I’d like to speak to you and as many of your associates as possible, so long as what you have to say is of any interest.”

            “About what?”

            “Roger.”

            “Mumbles would know best, but he’s out on some business of his own. Lucky you, you got me.”

            “I’m going to go to the loo,” John cut in, wanting to avoid any more time with Bob than he had to.

            There was, after all, an unsettling feeling of guilt whenever he was around him. Dishonesty, perhaps, was the root of it. John mused on this while he washed his hands. He would wash them until they bled if it meant he could avoid having to deal with being stuck between those two. Not stuck emotionally, of course, as he knew where he leaned in that respect.

            “Hello, John.”

            He turned to see One Two at the door.

            “Your mate’s out there asking everyone about Rog. He’s not very discreet, is he?”

            “He can be, but I don’t think he cares enough about it in this case,” John admitted. “He thinks you all more idiots than the rest of the human population.”

            “No one really knows anything about him. I know a bit more than others, due to my particular connection to more,” he cleared his throat, “superior sources.”

            “And you’re not going to help?”

            “I’m not that much of a bloody bastard, Jesus. I socked the bloke a good one, we’re even.

What I do want, John, is you to keep him in check.”

            “It’s all I ever do.”

            “I mean it, he can’t figure out things about me, whatever the fuck he does. Being fancied by one of your best mates, someone can’t just dig that out. There’s some bloke code there.”

            “He doesn’t operate on any code, especially not a social one.”

            “He can’t try to deduce about Stella, either. She’s dangerous.”

            “We’re all dangerous here.”

            John grimaced and reached for the paper towel roll that was sitting on the bathroom sink.

            “You’re about six centimeters short of dangerous.”

            John shoved open the door and One Two followed after.

            “Ah, excellent, Mr. One Two, Fred says you are exactly the man to talk to on this matter,” Sherlock called out as he strode over to where the two men were standing.

            “How’s your face holding up today?” One Two quipped.

            “Tell me everything you know about this Roger.”

            “I know a bit more than you need to. We went out and got pissed one night, spilled his guts. Literally too, all over my shoes.”

            Rather than reply, Sherlock gave a look that could only mean “continue”.

            “He’s never committed a crime in his life. The government probably has more on you and your loyal soldier bloke. Homeless for a while, but then someone set him up with a nice house. Even pissed he wouldn’t say who.”

            “Daniel Volatile, perhaps?” John offered.

            “He’s never met anyone from that band he stalks. He’s a bit of a creep.”

            “He could be lying.”

            “I don’t think a devoted creep like him would lie about meeting members of his obsession,” Sherlock interjected. “He would have to have a pretty spectacular incentive to hide it from everyone, and it would surely slip out when drunk in some way or other.”

            “Then you have a better guess?”

            “I don’t guess, John, you should know this by now.”

            “No, but you’re thinking.”

            “He was homeless. Did he ever specify how for how long?”

            “A few months,” One Two replied. “He was on the street, though. Not staying in shelters, painting this pity story.”

            “You could use the homeless network, then,” John suggested.

            “Please stop speaking, John, I’m thinking.”

            At this moment, as though from some divine intervention, Roger entered the room, whistling a tune by his beloved band. When he saw the two strangers, he instantly turned around and ran. After exchanging a quick glance, the two men ran off after him.

            It took less than a minute to catch him. It was actually pathetic, as he barely got out of the door. Criminals really were becoming quite disappointing.

            “Running makes you look guilty,” Sherlock muttered as he pushed Roger back into the building.

            “I’m not guilty. I haven’t done anything at all.”

            “Then why did you run?”

            Roger looked up at him, searching for words or some stupid sympathy. He was used to it from the time on the streets and the time before as a complete loser. It didn’t come now.

            “I had no clue what would happen. All I knew is that I was to join company with the Wild Bunch, keep an eye on Archy and that Johnny Quid bloke. That’s all I did, keep an eye on them. That’s not illegal.”

            “Who did you report to?”

            “Someone, I don’t know. They gave me a house, I wasn’t worried about who he was. I figured it was a police officer or someone from the government.”

            “You didn’t think maybe it could be another criminal?”

            “He didn’t seem like a Russian, and that’s who I was always told to be afraid of. I’ve always had friends in this scene, so it wasn’t hard to get in.”

            “He, you said he then. Just before you said they.”

            “I talk to him on the phone, usually I just leave voice mails, but once or twice I could hear noises on the other side, obviously male. Voices in the background, not Russian. I figured he was a spy or a politician.”

            “You’re an accessory to the crime,” Sherlock mumbled, “not the criminal. If, and this is becoming a stronger possibility, the Yard becomes involved you will serve time. If there is anything else you can offer, however, the chance is stronger that we won’t have to involve the police and you can go free.”

            “Fuck off, I just ruined my ties to this group. When he finds out he’ll probably have me out on the fucking streets again.”

            “That’s a product of your own stupidity. I suggest you don’t go home tonight, Roger, or ever again. Come back inside, John.”

            The two re-entered the Speeler. Everyone was quiet again, this time owing largely to the serious face of the taller man. They sat down at a table, and John used his hand to wipe away the crumbs and dirt that had been left behind.

            “So, then, you think it is-” John began.

            “It makes sense. No definite clues. Archy found out about me from the homeless, Roger was one of them. Corruption in my own underground network. The case, a man in power, perhaps the highest power he can have in the criminal world, then a younger man, a junkie who he has to watch out for. It has poetic symmetry, ways to twist the knife in the wound. Even the people indirectly involved the case of Hand-”

            “Oi, you two,” a voice called from the doorway. Archy.

            “Had a run-in with some connection of yours.”

            Both of them blanched slightly, fearing it was a not so favorable connection.

            “Fairly certain he was government.”

            “Oh, Mycroft,” Sherlock said, relief evident in his usually cool voice.

            “Made some threats himself. What the fuck do you think this is?”

            “Trust me, if I had my way, he would never be involved in my business,” Sherlock replied. “He lives on a strict diet of spying on me, ruling the country, and breaking his actual diet.”

            “You still only have until tomorrow, I’m not gonna hurt you, but tomorrow night.”

            “Oh, did he tell you how it is?”

            “Oi. He only said serious harm.”

            “We have a lead, but it’s not very favorable for any of us. This could be directly tied into another criminal ring of sorts. I’m sure there has been a certain M word buzzing around your ranks for months now.”

            “Moriarty’s not a threat for us.”

            “He’s made himself one now. You’ve got a system perhaps even more neatly organized than the government, and some sort of moral guide to your organization. Every homeless junkie these men have let into this building has been a potential spy, everyone new to this is all wrong.”

            “Then what of Johnny?”

            “He’s created a case, likely to draw both of us in. He’s still alive, most likely, he’ll be alive until his captor decides to utilize me. It’s that simple. We just have to hope that I can figure out where he is before Moriarty decides to play a game.”

 


	6. Chapter 6

**221B Baker Street**

            They returned to the flat just as night was falling, having stopped along the way for the food that John deemed so necessary to get through the day. It was Thai and they ate it at the kitchen table, both silently staring alternately at the other and around the room, just for a place to rest their eyes when gaping at each other became too much.

            “I’m going to find Daniel Volatile tonight,” Sherlock announced, after two bites (which was really a lot for him when he was on a case.)

            “Of course,” John answered.

            “Alone.”

            “Fuck, you can’t be serious. I’m not getting left behind just because you’re going against him again. One day your insistence on doing the dangerous things alone is going to get you in serious trouble or worse.”

            “Better me alone than taking you with me.”

            “No, you git, that’s how friendship works. We do stupid things together.”

            “It’s likely nothing, anyway. You’re safer off in the flat.”

            “Safer off? Last time I got taken off the street, practically right outside of the damn flat,” John growled. “I’m not safe here and I’m not at risk in this case.”

            “You weren’t at risk last time, technically.”

            “No, I wasn’t but that’s an unpredictable variable.”

            “You’re too important to me to risk.”

            “I’m your colleague, your assistant. It’s my job to go out and risk myself alongside you.”

            “Just fucking leave it, John, okay?” Sherlock exclaimed, rising from the table.

            In a huff he had his coat and scarf on and was out the door without a further word.

            “Just fucking lovely!” John yelled after him. “Be a fucking nine year old about it, then!”

 

            John ended up falling asleep on the couch while watching some American drama on the telly. He had hoped to wait up, to at least hear what his idiotic flatmate had to say about the rock star, or if he even found him. By the time Sherlock pounded up the stairs, however, it was nearly midnight and John wasn’t likely to wake any time soon. At least, under normal circumstances he would not have. However, the sound of a mug crashing and a flurry of “fucks” are usually under the category of “loud enough to raise the dead”.

            “You’re home then,” John said, sitting up and rubbing his eyes.

            “Of course I’m home, John, or else I’m a very incompetent criminal,” the voice carried clearly from the kitchen.

            “Do you need help cleaning things up?”

            “It’s only in three pieces. I think I can handle that quite well on my own.”

            “You sure of that?”

            “I found this Daniel Volatile. He knows nothing. He’s the biggest idiot I’ve ever met. He only sent out a request, it just happened to be going up the proper channels. ‘Get rid of my rival’ and he’s gone. He has to be. Daniel was in deep, some junkie slum. It was a user’s paradise.”

            “You didn’t-”

            “I wouldn’t come back home to you if I did,” Sherlock answered, finally appearing in the kitchen doorway. “If Johnny Quid hasn’t given into drugs by this point, he’s the strongest junkie I’ve ever encountered, though.”

            “Are you implying he has more strength than you would have?”

            “I’m implying that Johnny Quid has given himself a purpose, illegal though it may be, and I think he’s a dangerous man for the rest of the world because of that. Could also mean he and his are actually useful to me.”

            “You took this case because you felt sympathy for him,” John stated. It should have been a question. When he was thinking it, it was a question. It came out as a fact.

            “Please, John, we’re not going down this path. You know how I detest it.”

            “No. He’s a young man with a lot of promise, but tempted by conditions he can’t control into a life of drugs and dependency. As far as we know, he doesn’t have many legitimate connections, and one of them is a man of great power, though a little controlling and over-bearing. People constantly misjudge him and expect the worst from him. I think it sounds a lot like someone else I know.”

            “I relate, alright? I don’t know if that means it is sympathy. What I do know is it is weakness and now there’s a madman out there who’s benefiting from it. Emotions are useless, and I won’t likely make that mistake again.”

            “I like to think of it this way,” John began. “If you didn’t relate, as you say it, to this man, Moriarty would likely have killed him days ago. But he can use him, so he wants him alive. Use this against him, Sherlock. Turn the fucking tables on the bastard.”

            “He’ll have something new after, some new twisted game.”

            “Well, you always liked games,” John said, a wry smile on his face, “I’m going to bed. Please, no obnoxious rock music tonight.”

 

            John woke up early the next morning. There was hardly light in the flat and he could hardly make out the figure of Sherlock sitting on the bottom stair. The other man was asleep, head in hand and leaning across the wall. It hardly seemed like a comfortable position. Before he went down the last few stairs, he leaned down and placed a tentative kiss on the top of his friend’s head.

            “Thanks for watching out for me,” he whispered.

            Not wanting to wake up his flatmate, John quietly made himself a cup of tea and went back up the stairs to dress. He decided to start the day with a walk. The brisk air might even keep him from feeling the need for his “good morning world wank” that he’d likely need if he had to look at the sleeping face on his stairwell one more time.

            It should come as no surprise that not far from Baker Street, John was of course taken. Nor should it come as a surprise that immediately after his departure, Sherlock awoke and rushed out of the flat after his friend, leaving the door hanging wide open.

 

            “Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock found himself banging on her door not three minutes later. “Mrs. Hudson!”

            “What, dear,” she answered, coming to the door in her dressing gown, “it’s not even seven in the morning.”

            “Have you seen John? He went for a walk, but I can’t track him and” And what? He thought. He can’t say that he had a gut feeling something was wrong, or that he was paranoid. Sherlock Holmes wasn’t an intuit and he certainly didn’t let paranoia seize him.

            “Perhaps he left a note, Dr. Watson always thinks of you before he goes away for the day. I’m sure he left something.”

            “Doubtful.”

            Sherlock ran up the stairs, taking two at the time. There was no note, of course there was no note. He dug through the papers on the mantle, as though it could be hidden somewhere. Suddenly, he heard the vibrating sound of a phone. He reached for his mobile in his pocket, it was still. Whatever blood he had left in his face completely drained. It was the pink phone, tucked away amongst the papers on the desk. He ran over and seized it, reading the message:

 _Johnny Quid’s got a new playmate. :D_

Another message came in as soon as he finished.

 _I should just start a collection of Johns. Yours looks much cuter than that brute Archy’s when he’s sleeping._

            Before he could finish reading the text, he headed out for the promised dash around London.

 

 **Undisclosed Bunker**

            John woke up with his face pressed against a concrete floor. He scrambled up, taking in the room, wherever he was. The walls were white and completely bare. It was a small room with only a sofa. He noticed, then, sitting in the corner, a man in sunglasses and a ridiculous coat.

            “Johnny Quid,” he mumbled, remembering the face from photographs and music videos.

            “Oi, that’s me. Never thought I’d see a human face again, could have been a better one, though. You’re John too, right?”

            “Yeah or I was, can’t quite figure it out,” he half-joked. “I take it as the door’s dead bolted?”

            “Concrete. I figures this is a bomb shelter, probably from some crazy government guy. Or some twisted form of detox program. Didn’t care much for the bloke who runs this, whatever it is.”

            Johnny gestured towards the only other item of furniture in the room, a coffee table, with a crack pipe lying on it.

            “Anyway, I think that cane over there’s yours, they brought it in with ya.”

            John noticed his old cane, tucked away in the far right corner, with a note attached. He rose the rest of the way and walked over, picking up the note.

“Here’s the cane Johnny Boy! Thought you might need it.”

            “Fucking fuck fuck,” John yelled, reaching in his pocket for his phone. “Fucking lovely.”

            The battery was nearly dead, likely from searching for a signal. The notification flashed for two new voice mails. John listened to the first.

            “John! Where the hell are you? I told you not to leave the flat. Listen, you need to tell me where you are, because if not…just where the fuck have you gone to? And if this is not John listening to this, fuck off because I’m going to figure this out.”

            Then the second.

            “Helllllooo Johnny Boy, long time no see. I thought you were getting a little jealous of the games I play with your little boyfriend, so I figured you’d like to play a game. It’s really simple, even a pet like you can get it. Our friend Mr. Quid here has been in this room for five days now, he’s nearly broken, I’d wager. If he smokes the pipe, you’re both free to go. After my men smash both of your legs, of course. The only way to win is if your precious Sherlock finds you before the other Johnny can break. Oh, and if you speak a word of this game to your new companion, I’ll kill him and still make you lame for the rest of your days. Ta-ta.”

            The phone went dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have the rest of the story written, I just need time to edit. It shouldn't take too long, but I am a college student with finals.  
> Anyway, the next part bumps up the rating from M to E, which should be exciting. I know it was for me.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for this taking me longer than I originally anticipated. I got busy with finals, then I got busy with being at home. Anyway, here it is.

**Archy’s Office**

            Sherlock found himself in Archy’s office, his real office, not the warehouses he used for interrogation or clandestine meetings. (The similarities between the criminals and the government were disconcerting at this point.) Archy gaped at him from his chair, a high backed and leather monstrosity. The whole room was surprisingly modern. If Sherlock was in the mood to deduce trivial facts, he would have noted this as both a statement of Archy’s capability and his desire for change within the old system that he was buried in.

            “He’s taken your assistant?”

            “John, unfortunately, has a knack for getting abducted,” Sherlock commented drily. “They are likely in the same location, for now.”

            “Well, where the fuck are they?”

            “I don’t know. That’s the trick. It’s not about who, I should have known who. It’s a matter of where.”

            “I hired you to find Johnny. I didn’t give a fuck why he was gone, it was always about the where,” Archy snarled.

            “Getting testy is going to get you nowhere. Right now I am as invested in finding this man as I could ever possibly be, so believe me when I say that I don’t need you to open your unintelligent mouth and disturb my thought process.”

            “I’m not afraid of men with black cars, and I’m not afraid of anarchist criminal masterminds, what I am afraid of is not getting Johnny back as he was. It’s about me being right, you see? I’d imagine we both want to be right about this, so if you don’t stop being such a prick, I will shoot you myself.”

            The only response he got at first was two raised brows.

            “I need to go back to Johnny Quid’s house. This is a game. Moriarty wants us to find them, or else we’d have been getting body parts for days now.”

            “He’s not coming back as the Johnny I worked for, not likely. Your John might be different too.”

            “There’s a chance, but if we get to them in time. Playing games is so much sweeter if you think your competitor has a chance of winning, after all.”

            “Of course, with your intellect and my gun, we have a chance of winning.”

            “Maybe.”

 

 **Undisclosed Bunker**

            John had eased himself unto the couch after listening to his voicemails. Luckily, he had grown accustomed to violence and threats and was relatively composed. (How exactly does that happen to a normal bloke?) Perhaps even more luckily, Johnny Quid seemed like a relatively dense youth, and not one to be receptive to what was going on around him.

            “We were supposed to find you,” John spoke. “Not like this. You’re not- you’re not detoxing and this isn’t the government.”

            “Woke up drugged on the floor, gotta be detox or Big Brother,” Johnny gestured wildly with his hands.

            “No, you were properly abducted, by a proper criminal.”

            “Oi, that weasel man? He’s a bad guy, is he? Little chap for doing the underground.”

            John chuckled a little at this.

            “I’d have him dead in two seconds, I would. Been hoping he’d come back so I could test the theory actually,” Johnny expounded.

            “You’d be dead moments after. My friend and I, we’ve dealt with him before and he’s not the sort of man you want to mess around with.”

            “How do I know you’re not with him, anyway, Other John?”

            John shrugged, “You don’t. And excuse me, Other John?”

            “Your name is also John and I was here first. I’m John and you’re Other John.”

            “Awfully self-important, I think,” John snorted, recalling the parallel he had brought up the night before.

            “I’m what they call a rocknrolla, so yeah, important compared to a short man in a jumper.”

            “I’ve saved human lives and put up with the most impossible man in the world on a day to day basis, I’m not going to die under the moniker Other John because some equally crazy rock star deemed me less than him.”

            “I like you, Other John. You gotta smoke?”

            “No, and you’re not smoking in this tiny fucking room. I quite like my lungs.”

            John shoved his hands in his coat pockets.

            “I figured out the pipe thing, I think,” Johnny quipped. “If I smoke, they kill me. At least, that’s my theory until later today. It might be an illusion, I don’t remember if it was there when I came in. Are you a junkie?”

            “No.”

            “Did Archy set you after me?”

            “Yes.”

            “Good ole Uncle Arch. Loyalest of dogs even to the broken down.”

            “Here,” John said, extending out his hand. In it, he held a nicotine patch that had somehow made its way into his pocket. At some point, Sherlock had started using him like a giant walking purse, like some women like to do with their hen pecked husbands.

            “Patch?”

            “It’ll give you your fix without killing either of us.”

            “I don’t much like that weasel man,” Johnny stated, applying the patch to his stomach. “I know criminals, he’s gotta be the craziest one out there if he is one,” he paused. “Is he that bloke everyone’s been shitting themselves over for months now?”

            “I don’t really know what the underworld talks about. My friend, he solves murders and things, and he does it better than anyone but he’s not very good with the moral compass.”

            “Then why do you put up with his shit? I’m a hot mess but I do what the hell I want.”

            “We’re friends, and if I don’t look out for him, he’s going to end up dead and I’m too invested in him as a person to let that happen.”

            “Why the fuck are you here?”

            “You ask too many questions, Other John,” John replied, leaning his head back against the wall.

            “Hey, you’re Other John!”

            “I’m older, so my rules go. I’m John, you’re Other John.”

 **The Speeler**

            “That was Archy,” One Two grimaced as he clicked down the phone. “They’re working on the lead about Johnny. The tall Wanker thinks without a doubt it’s the new criminal.”

            “What the fuck,” Mumbles said, “is a fucking crime boss or whatever doing kidnapping other criminals? This is worse than the Russians.”

            “Yes, it’s fucking worse than the Russians,” One Two groaned, sliding down into a chair. “Jesus, I can’t deal with this shit. I’ve got a woman and a fucking-” he stopped there. “Bob, apparently your John’s been taken too.”

            “My John?” Handsome Bob cut in, suppressing a cheeky grin. “He’s that Ponce’s John. That’s why he was taken. Nah, I’ll stick with Bertie now on.”

            “Good time to have a moral revelation, when your whole system’s crashing the fuck down.”

            “This ain’t so bad,” Mumbles offered.

            “No, but it means things can get worse. It means we’ll actually have to be grateful for this nancy bloke for whatever the fuck he ends up doing.”

 

 **Undisclosed Bunker**

            John had been nearly asleep before he suddenly snapped up. Can’t sleep. It isn’t a game of wait and see. It’s a game of taking care of someone. Making sure he doesn’t do drugs. These thoughts rushed through his mind. Can’t make someone stay away from drugs, you just need faith, but I can’t have faith. I have to take care of people. I was trained to take care of people.

            “Do you have a bird, Older Going Grey John?”

            “I’m between birds, at the moment, Younger Annoying John.”

            “So you’re a ladykiller, then?” Johnny smirked.

            “No. I had a girlfriend, singular, but she didn’t much like the lifestyle I was leading, so we ended it.”

            “Maybe you should try blokes,” Johnny offered.

            “Actually,” John said, with a little chuckle, “there have been in the past. And recently, I went out with someone you likely know very well.”

            “Handsome Bob? At least you’ve gotten a fuck recently.”

            “No, no,” John answered. “It was for this case, to get information to find you.”

            “When I sleep, I think they drug me,” Johnny confessed. “Each day I want that crack pipe more. That was my bird for a long time. Married to the crack pipe.”

            “How’d the divorce go?”

            “Rocky. Turns out all my mistresses revolted as well,” Johnny deadpanned. “Do I smell?”

            “A little bit, yeah.”

            “Hit me if I try to smoke. Did Archy teach you how to slap?”

            “I was in the military, I can manage it on my own.”

 **Johnny Quid’s Flat**

            Sherlock paraded around Johnny Quid’s house as the maid, complete in French maid outfit, trailed him, yelling at him whenever he threw something or careless cast something aside. Archy settled down in the study, drinking some of his friend’s back-up store of scotch. He actually had to stop himself from laughing by the third time the other man came into the room. He was losing his collected air and each time looked more and more noticeably flustered.

            “There has got to be a clue around here somewhere, a puzzle piece, anything,” he muttered to himself the fourth time he entered the room.

            “Mr Archy, you need to stop him,” the maid said, “he destroyed two sheet sets and tore apart the kitchen. This is the second time in a week.”

            “It’s this or you’re unemployed,” Archy scowled.

            “What could give us a place. He hasn’t been performing, he doesn’t go any place in particular, he has no spot for privacy. It has to be a place that he’s never been before. What means something to him?”

            “He only cares about his public image, his cigarettes, and his painting.”

            “His painting!” Sherlock exclaimed. “That’s it, the painting.”

            He walked over to the wall where it was hanging and tore it down. It was a rubbish painting, absolutely no artistic merit to it, definitely no clues. The answer was in the right hand corner: in large letters, the painter’s name: John Matthews.

            The painting dropped out of his hands, but he ignored the maid who was scolding him as he pulled out his phone.

            “What the hell are you doing?” Archy said, rising out of his chair.

            “John Matthews, the painter,” he muttered, as his eyes scanned through news articles. “He lives just outside of London. He’s extremely paranoid, always talks about Communists invading. Attempted suicide three times.”

            “And?”

            “How fast can your driver drive?”


	8. Chapter 8

**Undisclosed Bunker**

            “Older John,” Johnny Quid rasped, “I think I’m going to smoke.”

            “Are you sure about that?” John remarked, a jolt of fear going through him. Say a word and he’s dead and you’re as good as dead. Regardless, you’re good as dead.

            “No,” the other man sunk unto the sofa.

            “Why not?”

            “Because I’m many things, one of which is relatively smart given the brain cells I’ve killed. Another is obnoxiously determined. The most important thing of all is I’m fucking Johnny Quid and I ain’t doing nothing I don’t want to do.”

            John looked over to the other man with a reassuring smile, but the smile he received in return was wary, accompanied by a pale white face and clenched jaw. There wasn’t much more time.

 **John Matthews’ House**

            John Matthews’ house was marked off as a crime scene. Yarders stood outside, nonchalantly talking, cups of coffee in hand.

            “They think it’s suicide,” Sherlock mentioned to Archy, who was sitting next to him.

            The black car had not so inconspicuously pulled up in the last thirty seconds. It only took DI Lestrade another twenty five seconds to notice it. He headed over, looking discouragingly grumpy. Sherlock burst out of the car, his usual crime scene enthusiasm suddenly taking over. Archy, not being one to back down, soon followed.

            “Sherlock, what are you bloody doing here?”

            “Crime scene, consulting detective, Yard as always out of your depth.”

            “It’s a suicide.”

            “Wrong!”

            “Who the hell is he?” Lestrade gestured towards Archy. “And where is John?”

            “That’s why I’m here.”

            Sherlock let himself through the tape and into the house, Archy trailing behind. Lestrade, who already knew that sending him away was a lost cause, had gone ahead, to point out the body.

            “Not interested right now,” Sherlock replied, waving a dismissive hand towards the corpse in the parlor.

            He began going through the house, calmly at first. He searched for fissures in walls, doors that were secreted away, anything that could be used for hiding. By the time he had gone through the second bedroom, there was something frantic in his nature, much like his actions in the missing man’s house. Archy followed him, quietly, slowly growing paler, and unconsciously grabbing at his belt where his gun was concealed.

            “What the hell are you doing?” Archy at last snapped. “This place is full of the police.”

            “All the more reason to be here, hiding them under the noses of London’s finest. I need plans, drawings, something for this house. They’re in here.”

            “And if they’re not?”

            “They are, and if you don’t shut up, I’ll deliver you to the Yard personally.”

            “Someone get us blueprints for this house,” Archy shouted down the staircase, feeling bold despite the presence of his enemy.

 

 **Undisclosed Bunker**

            “I think I hear something above us,” John commented idly, though it was for the third or fourth time he said it.

            “I think we’re under a building, Older John,” Johnny Quid answered. “There’s noises overhead but I’ve tried screaming and no one heard.”

            John debated retrying this idea for himself, but realized that it would probably end unfavorably for him. Criminals, while great cheaters themselves, didn’t often tolerate others cheating in their games.

            “So this is some weird bomb shelter. What do you do when you have to piss?”

            “There’s a bottle under the couch. I’ve only gone twice since I’ve been here. Pretty easy when you don’t eat, or as a game to keep yourself amused.”

            John reached down and saw that the bottle was completely full.

            “I think it’s time, John,” Johnny stated, calmly, reaching out for the pipe on the coffee table.

            John lunged forward, survival instinct kicking in. He hoped, if nothing else, he could knock the pipe out of the other man’s hands. Hopefully he could break it. That would count right? Instead he ended up on the floor, as the younger man proved much more nimble than his five days of static energy would suggest.

            “Oi, mate, lemme do this. I’m not gonna have you pissing on my shoes. They’re designer.”

            “You’re a junkie, this is going off the wagon,” John grunted, attempting to grab hold of the couch to support himself.

            “Oi, no. Haven’t you been listening First John? I’m a rocknrolla, not a junkie. Uncle Arch has got me, I’ll do this and we can jog along and have a fag or two, yeah?”

            “No,” John stated, pulling himself the rest of the way up, “you won’t do this. Don’t do this. If you give into the craving you won’t be the same again.”

            “You’ve got a hero complex, John, youse should talk about that with someone, yeah?”

            Johnny pulled a lighter out of his back pocket and led it to the bottom of the pipe.

            “You need to stop now, Johnny, just stop, put the pipe down.”

            The first inhale coincided with a puff of something coming through the room’s solitary vent.

 **John Matthews’ House**

            Sherlock and Archy stood at the dead man’s kitchen table, looking over the blueprints for his house.

            “There’s nothing here,” Archy admitted first.

            “But there has to be, there’s something here somewhere.”

            “He comes into the crime scene and then uses the dead man’s kitchen as his office while a corpse is less than 10 feet away,” a male voice carried over from the entryway.

            “I thought we established rules about speaking, Anderson,” Sherlock called out, directing his voice towards the entry.

            Anderson stepped into the kitchen, the floorboard beneath him squeaking just so. It had been concealed by a large oriental rug.

            “Make yourself useful and step there again,” Sherlock directed.

            It squeaked again.

            “Hollow underneath.”

            Sherlock was, in an instant, practically pushing Anderson back into the entry and pulling up the rug, revealing some obviously moveable boards. Archy came over and helped him pull them up.

            “You’ll find that the man has been dead for less than three hours,” Sherlock offered. “Take him in for testing, he’s been poisoned. He was very careful about his health and safety, so likely the person responsible is one within his household.”

            When all of the boards were pulled up, they revealed a stairway leading into something that looked like a roughhewn basement or a forgotten part of London’s sewers. By this time, half of the people on site were crowded around the hole, most standing open-mouthed and looking down it.

            “Ten minutes, then you can come down.”

            Sherlock began his trek down the stairs, gesturing for Archy to follow after him. It was nearly pitch black. Both men, struck by the same idea, held out their phones, using some similar torch app in order to light the way.

            “This looks like the sewer,” Archy commented. “I know the sewer.”

            “Very likely is. London, like most old cities, has a rather intricate literal underground system. Sewers can be useful for many things. This is an old section, untouched. Likely used for criminal activities in the late nineteenth century. Now shut up, there may be people down here.”

            “There are,” a rather gruff voice sounded from somewhere.

            Without hesitation, both men turned off their phones. Archy also pulled out his gun.

            “Don’t use that,” Sherlock said through gritted teeth, “the Yard is upstairs.”

            “Alright,” Archy replied.

            Instead, the older man lunged forward, from where he detected the voice was from, and hit him on the head with the butt of his gun.

            “Lucky aim?”

            “No luck, skill.”

            Both men flicked their phone lights back on. Archy used his to look at the man lying prostrate on the floor. Knocked out cold, not dead. Sherlock looked at the door behind him, with its oddly straightforward lock.

            “I need your help,” he nodded towards the lock, “I need your strength.”

            Archy pressed the lock open, the sound of the lock unhinging like air being released. He pushed the door open, and both men stepped aside. Whatever had been in the air inside the room was being expelled. Both held coats up to their faces in order to keep it out of their own lungs, with matching fearful faces for the two persons supposedly within the room.

            “John!” both men called out at the same time.

            “John’s not here,” one voice, the more feeble one answered, “the Crack Pipe is coming along quite nicely. Older John’s okay. He’s gone to sleep.”

            “Go get someone,” Sherlock ordered. “Tell someone to come down here.”

            Before Archy could reply, the other man was through the doorway and into the room. He ran, more than he had in a while, and turned back to see his Johnny sinking into unconsciousness and the other John being practically cradled by his friend.

 **Archy’s Car**

            When John next woke up, he was in a car next to a snoring Johnny Quid. He blinked a few times, trying to process all that had happened. There was a gloved hand grabbing his knee, he looked down and smiled. Sherlock was on his other side and Archy was in the front seat, making tsking noises.

            “What happened?” he managed to say, not sure if his mouth could form words.

            “Some gas,” was the reply. “It took a lot of convincing to get away from the Yard. We have to go back for paperwork tomorrow.”

            “Johnny gave in. I’m sorry, Archy. He held out for a long time.”

            “I was still right,” the man in the front seat mumbled. “Give him a detox if he needs when he wakes, then back to the old annoying self.”

            “Should we go to the hospital?”

            “Archy is taking Johnny to a safe place for him, if you like, you can go as well. You, presumably, don’t have any other drugs in your system so should be fine.”

            “I want to go home,” John replied, resting his hand on the gloved one on his knee. “It’s only been a day, right?”

            “Barely a few hours, not even long enough for me to worry,” Sherlock replied, but the look on his face said otherwise.

            “Here you are, mates,” Archy looked over his seat. “I expect you tomorrow after your appointment with Scotland Yard. We have matters to discuss.”

 **221B Baker Street**

            “I should really stop getting kidnapped,” John said, settling into his chair. “People are going to get the idea I’m a damsel in distress,” he paused. “Have you seen my phone charger?”

            Sherlock pulled it out from where he had shoved it into the couch cushions a few days ago and tossed it to his flatmate. John took it and searched around the room for an outlet, plugging the charger in and the phone into that.

            “There’s no reception in underground bunkers, surprisingly,” he chuckled. “I had two lovely messages to greet me today. Thought you’d like to listen to the second when the phone is ready.”

            “I’m sure it’s intriguing,” Sherlock glowered from his place on the couch.

            “Are you mad at me? For being kidnapped?”

            “I told you to stay in the flat, John.”

            “You’re not my keeper, believe it or not, and I think the criminals are quite capable of taking me from within the flat.”

            “You can’t just dangle yourself in front of people out there.”

            “You’re not mad at me,” John suggested. “You’re mad that you got duped, mad that it was pretty much pure chance that this happened. How did you even end up finding us?”

            “Squeaky floorboards and Anderson.”

            The phone lit up.

            “Ah see, now let’s listen,” John put speaker phone on. “Oh, there’s a new one.”

            Both men stilled, and began listening to the two old messages. Sherlock looked a little embarrassed through the first, or at least as embarrassed as he could be, but lost any color he had gained by the second.

            “One new message.”

            “You don’t play fair, John. I was just heading on my way to see you when your boyfriend and that mob boss broke into our hidey hole. You lost your game. How’d you get so lucky? Consider this an I O U for the next time we meet. I’ll take it easy, maybe only mangle one of your limbs. If you’re lucky, it’ll be an arm and you’ll still be able to run after your hero and won’t have to slave away in a clinic all day.”

            “I’m going to make a cup of tea,” John forced out, rising and padding into the kitchen.

            “Why did you leave the flat?” Sherlock asked again, trying to get the answer to the only question he could solve now.

            “I needed air, it was early in the morning, I didn’t expect anything to happen,” John answered, clearly lying.

            “Those are excuses not reasons.”

            “I left because you were distracting,” John said, sharply. “You know, I’m just going to bed. Fuck tea, fuck this day, fuck everything.”

            “John, it’s only eight-”

            “Fuck everything,” his flatmate exclaimed, heading up to his room.

 

            John tossed and turned for full on two hours, and was tempted to make his way downstairs when he felt the pressure of someone sitting on the other side of the mattress. He rolled over to see his flatmate attempting to slide in under his duvet.

            “The fuck, Sherlock?” he mumbled.

            “You always insist I get more sleep and I’m very tired,” he stated.

            “Yes, that’s what your bedroom is for.”

            “I can’t sleep unless I know you’re safe. I don’t fancy dozing off on the stairs again, and I think there’s enough room in your bed that the floor is really an unwarranted place for me to sleep.”

            “You’re mad,” John said, and rolled back over anyway.

            He felt the other man slide in the bed next to him, which sent a not unexpected sensation through his entire body.

            “You’ve got bruises,” Sherlock commented.

            “I fell and landed on my shoulder. The good one, thank God.”

            He felt the hand wavering mere centimeters from his right shoulder. Bit not good, that. Bit too good, actually.

            “Please turn over, if you’re going to invade my bed.”

            Sherlock silently consented, but made the process rather dramatic. John timidly slid his leg towards the other side of the bed, testing the waters. His foot made contact with Sherlock’s shin and he immediately retracted. He then felt the press of the other man’s sole upon his own foot. It felt like maybe, just maybe, this was like holding hands or hugging. John fell asleep.


	9. Chapter 9

John woke once in the night to find himself completely wrapped in the arms of the other man. He was tired enough to drift back to sleep shortly, but not tired enough to process how embarrassingly close they were. Luckily, or perhaps unluckily, he was not awake when his flatmate, either in his sleep or discretely enough, pressed his lips to the top of John’s head and mumbled some words into his hair.

            When he woke up in the morning, he found that he had taken on the role of “the little spoon” in some unconscious man-cuddling. Or at least, that’s how he’d pass it off if Sherlock woke up before turning over and was able to deduce the position in which John awoke. Ten to one, even if he did move he’d be able to tell anyway.

            He fumbled for some clean clothes, not wanting to turn the light on, and made his way to the bathroom to shower and take care of some other business. Some painfully obvious business that resulted from the smell of someone else lingering on his t-shirt and waking up as a little spoon. Halfway through he heard the rock music blasting again, and he knew Sherlock was awake. He just wasn’t sure why he was listening to the obnoxious music, very loudly, after the case was solved.

            “Turn down that blasted music,” John shouted, after stepping out of the shower.

            By the time he stepped into the living room, it had been shut off and the normal morning stillness had seeped into the flat. John made his way into the kitchen and heard Sherlock make his way into the bathroom for his own shower. Right, because thinking about your friend naked in the place where you had just wanked thinking about him is always the best way to start off your day. He looked in the fridge for something edible.

            “Didn’t do the shopping yesterday,” he said to himself, “too busy being in an underground bunker with a bonkers rock star.”

            Toast then. John made himself two slices and put another two aside, just in case Sherlock honoured him by eating that morning. By the time he finished his second slice, the other man had appeared, dressed for the day in black trousers and his purple shirt. That day was bound to be difficult for John. Surprisingly, Sherlock grabbed one of the pieces of toast and began eating in silence. The two gaped at each other for a few minutes.

            “I’m sorry if you were uncomfortable with the position in which you must have awoken this morning, John,” Sherlock stated at length. “I have been told I have no conception of personal space while awake and apparently it has proven to be twofold while I’m asleep.”

            “It’s, it’s fine,” John replied, “just a little, ah, unexpected. Would’ve thought you were a distant bedfellow.”

            “Tonight I will of course return to my own room, if I do sleep. It’s most likely I won’t sleep at all.”

            Then there was a word at the back of John’s throat that he couldn’t quite get to come out.

            “Lestrade expects us soon, we should probably leave before he does another drugs bust."

 

“Dr. Watson,” Lestrade said, his mouth twitching up into a relieved smile. “We were worried about you. Sherlock assured us you were in capable hands, but.”

            “I was awake by the time we got home,” John replied, returning the smile. “Awake enough to make a cup of tea and watch some telly, at least.”

            “Lucky for you we had to keep the story under wraps, between the high profile nature of the other vic and the low profile nature of our suspect, it’s better off this way.”

            “What are the new developments, Lestrade?” Sherlock cut in.

“There was a minor explosion not far from the bunker, likely the proper way to navigate back to Moriarty. We were still at the house at the time, but luckily no one was harmed. Poisoning was confirmed, which put Anderson out, but he still is the hero of the day. Sherlock told you that, right?”

            “He mentioned it very briefly, yeah.”

            “Who killed John Williams?” Sherlock interrupted again.

            “It was a substance in an energy smoothie made by a personal trainer. He didn’t do it intentionally, said someone paid him substantially to put it in the drink, unfortunately, he doesn’t know who. Confessed fairly easily, though, too pedestrian for you.”

            “The whole case was too pedestrian for me,” Sherlock snipped, shoving his hands into his coat pockets. “Let’s get your nonsense done, I have places to be.”

 **The Backseat of a Cab**

            The first few minutes of the cab ride were completely silent.

            “We’re meeting Archy at the Speeler, then?” John broke into the silence.

            “You lied to Lestrade about how you spent your night.”

            “Yes, well, I didn’t exactly need to tell him that I was obviously so scared that my flatmate felt the need to crawl into bed with me to protect me.”

            “If I felt you needed protected, I would have stayed awake outside of your door all night,” Sherlock confessed. “I was in your room because I needed to see that you were safe.”

            “Well I’m never safe, alright? That’s part of being human, it seems,” John said. “Extra so for the John Watsons of this world, going off to Afghanistan and getting shot, then back to England to become playthings for psychotic genius criminals.”

            “Good thing there’s only one of those, then,” Sherlock replied, drily, but he cracked a slight smile.

            “Good thing there’s only one crazy flatmate who listens to bad rock music at all the wrong hours of the day,” John said, attempting to continue with the teasing mood. “Why do you do that?”

            He couldn’t help but notice a faint twinge of pink in Sherlock’s cheeks, nor the few seconds it took him to process what he was going to say.

            “I find it diverting.”

            “You hardly gave it a listen this morning. Is this an experiment to see how long it takes me to yell at you to turn it off?”

            “Not quite.”

            “Well if you like that music, it’s fine. I won’t even tell anyone and damage your music snob reputation, though Mrs. Hudson undoubtedly already knows and Mycroft probably will soon enough. Just keep it quiet in the morning and late at night.”

 **The Speeler**

            As soon as they entered The Speeler, Johnny Quid was embracing them both, sloppy and energetically at best.

            “Older John!” he exclaimed. “You’re not dead!”

            “No, I’m still very much alive,” John wheezed out from the tight embrace.

            “Older John?”

            Sherlock raised a brow.

            “We had a John and Other John system but we disagreed, so I’m Older John and he’s Younger Annoying John.”

            “Or Rock Star John,” Johnny replied with a cheeky grin.

            “Annoying John, more often.”

            “Arch’ll be here in a few. Spending some time with my blokes. They owe me for thinking I was fallen off the wagon.”

            He gestured to a table where One Two, Handsome Bob, and Mumbles were all seated. They occasionally glanced towards the three standing men.

            “Technically, you have fallen off the wagon,” Sherlock said, casting Johnny an accusatory look.

            “Not his fault,” John defended. “Remember?”

            “Oi, probably drugged into submission.”

            “You also almost cost Older John here his mobility with your rash actions.”

            “So it really was an evil criminal mastermind?” Johnny Quid said, gesturing wildly with his hands.

            “Annoying John, let’s take a sit, while Sherlock here waits for Archy to show up.”

            John directed the other man to the table with the others. He seated himself in the recently vacated seat and Johnny pulled up another for himself, sitting backwards and straddling it.

            “Sorry about the getting kidnapped thing, mate,” One Two offered.

            “Relatively used to it,” John grimaced. “Which is in itself unfortunate.”

            “You are a danger man,” Bob purred, his voice taking on a more casually flirtatious tone than it had in the past.

            “We all have our vices.”

            “I’d celebrate your happy release by finding a good bird, having a nice shag, yeah?” Mumbles suggested.

            “What you didn’t see? A few nights ago John here was quite happily snogging-”

            “You lied then, Other John,” Johnny reprimanded. “Said no birds.”

            “It wasn’t,” John replied.

            “Him?” Mumbles stated, pointing to where Sherlock was standing, intently focused on the group.

            “No, I didn’t snog Sherlock,” John defended. “No snogging. It was Bob, of course, on our date.”

            “I’d go with the mysterious nancy bloke over Bob, Older John,” Johnny scoffed. “Never know what you’ll catch from Bob. Besides, your friend looks over at you like he’d fuck you right on this table.”

            “I’m not- I’m- that’s how his face works.”

            “Not how he looked at me earlier. Between you and me,” Johnny began, leaning in closer to John and attempting to whisper, “before I went under the last thing I’m certain I saw was him kissing your face yesterday.”

            “You sure you’re not high, mate?” John chuckled.

            “Wait, are you or aren’t you a poof?” Mumbles asked.

            “I’m not, but I’m not-not,” John shrugged. “Mostly into birds.”

            “Was your interest in Bob genuine?”

            “Oi, low blow,” Bob murmured.

            “Sorry, can’t say I was. Nothing against you, Handsome. You’re very attractive, just not so much my type.”

            “You like the skinny blokes, don’t you?” One Two supplied. “That’s what I told him, but he didn’t listen.”

            “That was his problem with me too,” Bob teased.

            “Skinny birds, Bobski.”

            “Not so skinny now.”

            “Did you just insult my pregnant girlfriend?”

            “Stated a fact. Wouldn’t dare, Stella would have my bollocks off.”

            “Yeah she would,” One Two laughed.

            John, in the meanwhile, had risen and returned to his position by his friend, standing with his hands folded in front of him.

            “You can stop watching me so intently,” John said. “I’m not going to run off and as far as I know, none of these men are going to kidnap me.”

            “I was amused by your interaction with these men. The reveal of your bisexuality was quite intriguing. You opened up rather easily to relative strangers.”

            “Yes, well, if you’d had asked, I would have told. You sort of give this air of ‘I know everything under the sun except for valid information about the sun itself’ so I didn’t bother with all the little details. I thought you knew.”

            “I did.”

            “Right then. When’ll Archy be here?”

            “Any moment now, I’m sure.”

            Not one to disappoint, Archy arrived within moments, looking in his prime. He was intimidating when worried, when in his ideal form he was downright terrifying.

            “Hello, ladies,” he addressed the room at large, “gentlemen.”

            Everyone grumbled something in the way of a reply, obviously accustomed to the man, terrifying or not.

            “I see you’re doing well today, John,” he said. “Johnny, as you can see, is in good form today. Didn’t even inhale enough to need much of a detox. A bit put out by the state of his house, though.”

            “It could be worse, he could still be in an underground bunker.”

            “And is there any progress on catching the bastard?”

            “Nothing whatsoever. There was an underground explosion that cut off any entry into the bunker not long after we left. There was likely hidden cameras in the room that we could have traced, of course, but only an idiot would leave something that simple behind.”

            “I thought we were dealing with an idiot, if he thought enough to mess with the system.”

            “I think in this situation, the only idiot is you. Moriarty wouldn’t have used you if he didn’t think you’d be weak and stupid enough to consult someone on the other side of the law.”

            “Do you want my help?” Archy snipped.

            “Of course I want your help. I wouldn’t have taken your ridiculously simple case if I didn’t want your help. Is that all you needed me here for?”

            “We need to establish rules.”

            “Wrong,” Sherlock glowered. “Rules are where you are going wrong. This is simple bargaining, I scratch your back, you scratch mine. I’ve seen enough of your criminal records and your criminals to have you all in prison for the rest of your lives and,” he paused, “you can kill me and one of the few people in the world I care about in the next instant. It’s convenient that we cooperate to preserve our current situations.”

            “Then there’ll be no rules.”

“Next time you need me, please send a car and don’t threaten John. If you do, I think you’ll find some of your loyal contacts have lost their loyalty to you. Come on, John.”

“Take one of my cars,” Archy offered. “If we’re going to be partners, I ought to treat you right.”

“I do have one question, Archy,” Sherlock paused in the doorway. “The Russian man, what happened to him?”

He turned around and surveyed the faces of the seated men as well as Archy’s. He smirked, seeing one of them turn pale and hastily turn away.

 **Archy’s Car**

When they slid into the backseat of the car, the driver immediately rolled up the partition, effectively shutting them off from that part of the world for the time being.

“The Russian?”’ John asked.

“A Russian businessman and likely mob boss went missing, as well as his assistant, and as far as I could tell he was connected with that group. With the rampant dislike of the Russians coupled with their silence, they only confirmed it. I figured it out when I asked, of course. One Two’s face said it all. There was mortification but no pride. It was his girlfriend. She’s secretive, and everyone seems to hold her abilities in high esteem. Likely it was in self-defense. Nothing to report. If she wasn’t as much of an idiot as everyone else, I might even like Stella.”

“A compliment of the highest form coming from you.”

John silently turned towards the window and looked outside, taking in some relatively unfamiliar areas of London. He had gotten to know most of it since he started up with Sherlock, but the city seemed to be always changing.

“Johnny Quid is quite fond of you, John,” Sherlock stated. “Maybe not quite as much as Handsome Bob.”

“Are you trying to set me up with him, then?”

“You didn’t deny the skinny blokes statement, and I think Mr. Quid is quite liberal in his views. If you were with a rock star-”

“I do like thinner men,” John replied. “Not moronic rock stars who are overwhelmingly heterosexual.”

“Of course, I was merely observing.”

“Well don’t try to observe things about my love life or lack of, please,” John gritted out. “It’ll end up with me looking quite unfavorable.”

Sherlock placed his hand upon John’s, which was resting on the seat between them. Almost unconsciously, John twisted it around and intertwined their fingers. He still looked out the window, but he licked his lips and there was a hint of blushing behind his ears.

“No matter what I tell you, don’t kiss people for cases any more. Don’t touch them. Don’t let them touch you.”

“What if I want to?”

“Did you?”

“I said I didn’t. I wouldn’t have lied about something like that. I think I fancy a lie down when I get back to the flat. Remember, no music.”

“I don’t actually enjoy that atrocious music, John. It’s quite unbearable to listen to.”

“Then why were you listening to it so loudly this morn- Oh. Ooh.”

The blush behind his ears and on his neck spread to his face.

“So that time when I was in the shower and then you”

“Yes.”

“And you were”

“Thinking of you.”

John turned towards him briefly and flashed him a smile that either said “you’re completely mad” or “you’re the most brilliant man I’ve ever met.” Really, those meant the same thing, but what mattered was that John didn’t pull his hand away. Instead, he rubbed his thumb in small circles on the back of Sherlock’s leather gloved hand. It was then, that Sherlock withdrew his hand, and John hastily retracted his to his own lap. John concentrated on looking outside and trying not to look hurt, when the now bare hand reached across the way for his and they fell into the same position.

“I thought it was too warm for gloves myself,” John commented, carelessly.

            “What Johnny Quid said about yesterday was, of course correct,” Sherlock said. “Also, I wasn’t asleep yesterday morning on the stairs.”

            “Then why didn’t you stop me from leaving the flat?”

“I wasn’t asleep yet, I should say,” he admitted. “I appear to have fallen asleep for a few moments. I remember your gratitude and the pressing on my hair.”

“Well that’s hardly fair.”

“Hmm?”

“I don’t get to remember anything.”

“Perhaps when we get back to the flat, I’ll give you something to remember.”

“Do I detect a hint of innuendo?”

“I wasn’t really going for subtle. I’m quite sick of subtle and how long it has been going on. Subtle ends with you snogging another man on the couch.”

John realized how ironic it was that they were having a conversation about being less subtle while only holding hands. Only two people in the backseat, where no one could see them, fingers interlocked innocently. Not subtle but drawn out, then?

“I don’t like Bob, not like that. He’s attractive enough, but does nothing for me.”

“You refused to kiss me when you had the chance, however.”

“Because I didn’t need that complication in my life if it wasn’t something you wanted.”

“I think I made it fairly clear later that night that I wanted to.”

“You referred to it as a ‘universal sign of friendship’. I don’t think that really gets the message out that you want to snog someone senseless,” John defended. “If you’re going to stop being subtle, since you dislike it so much, you have to be clear about your intentions. Don’t make your best mate feel bad for wanting to kiss you when he has no reason to, yeah?”

“Well then, I lied that night. I wanted you to. I would also very much like it if you were willing to begin a romantic and sexual relationship with me. I like you, quite a lot.”

“All good, good to have that out in the open, see? And look, we’re home.”

John smirked as he opened the car door and slid out. He watched as Sherlock left from the other side, looking more flustered than he had ever seen before. When they were both safely inside and standing in the hallway, he stopped the other man.

“I quite like you too,” he leaned up until the words ghosted on Sherlock’s lips.

John then laid a kiss on the corner of his jaw and bounded up the steps, taking two at a time whenever possible. Sherlock ran after John, and nearly ran into him at the top of the stairs. Sherlock’s other glove was already shoved into his pocket and his scarf half undone. John stood frozen, his left shoe removed and his coat already cast off unto the floor.

“What the hell Jo-”

Sitting in the living room, looking rather too chummy, were Mycroft and Archy.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I sort of feel the need to say in advance (maybe apologize, I don't know) for the explicit turn taken in this chapter. Admittedly, when I first got the plot bunny for this fic, it started out as gen, but I don't think my brain can do that. So yeah.

**221B Baker Street**

“How did you get in here?” Sherlock glowered. John noted that he was actually addressing himself more to Mycroft than the actual stranger.

“Mrs. Hudson let us up,” Mycroft replied matter-of-factly, “as she always does. Some people do pay heed to family connections, you know.”

John set to properly hanging up his coat and pulling his other shoe off, wanting to avoid the confrontation before him.

“I’m surprised you didn’t notice how long my driver was taking,” Archy commented. “Told him to take the long way. Gave me time to get here.”

“You did mention black cars, I should have known,” Sherlock huffed. “See how morally ambiguous our government is? Working with the worst criminals in the city.”

“We had agreed that you would keep me informed of all cases you undertake, lest they end up involving Moriarty,” Mycroft said, some venomous displeasure seeping into his tone. “I’m awed that you would do something so petty as attempt to use a case in order to get an advantage over me. I, of course, knew you two were taken a few days ago, and it didn’t take much for me to figure out by whom.”

“I don’t believe there is a precedent for sharing information with people who spy on your personal life, nor a set rule for me allowing you to know anything about my life.”

At this, John gave up any pretense of wanting to be in the room and headed to the kitchen to clean up the breakfast dishes, which remained from that morning.

“Of course, you may do as you like. However, I must let you know that I will be privy to any interactions with Archy and his associates which you have in the future.”

“Archy has the right to tell whoever he wants about his dealings with me. It’s only on his part that misdeeds are being done. I would have thought him better than associating with an overstuffed excuse for a government official like yourself.”

Archy smiled at this. “Takes all types,” he replied, with the hint of laughter. “I have business to attend to. I suppose I will see you again.”

He rose and took his leave silently. Sherlock then proceeded to glare daggers at Mycroft, who seemed immune to them and wound not budge.

“Don’t you have wars to start or Russian mobsters to kill?”

“I do hate to ally myself with criminals, you know. But desperate times call for desperate measures. Archy understands how the government works, and he’s being rewarded handsomely because of that. I suggest you think of taking the same course of action and actually participating within the rules of society.”

With that he too rose, calmly stated a good-bye to John, who was in the middle of washing dishes in the sink, and closed the door softly behind him.

Sherlock unbuttoned his coat and threw it haphazardly on the back of one of the newly vacated chairs. As he leaned over to take off his shoes, he heard John softly humming to himself. This compelled him to pad into the kitchen, his now bare feet hardly making any noise. He snaked his left arm around John’s waist, and with his right pulled the neck of his jumper down ever so slightly, leaning over to place some kisses on the bruised parts of his shoulder.

“What are you doing?” John asked, attempting to turn his head to the side.

“Looking at your bruises.”

“With your mouth?”

“Would you like me to stop?”

“N-no. You do know that we haven’t properly kissed.”

“I’m rather fond of this striped jumper on you, John.”

“Are you even listening?”

“Of course. If you stop doing the fucking dishes for two seconds I’ll do a lot more than kiss you.”

“You have to let me go first,” John teased.

Sherlock released him and was rewarded with the sound of dishes clanking in the sink. John turned around and pulled his face down, just as he did before the fake-out. This time, though, Sherlock was not to be denied, and initiated, lips meeting lips chaste at first, but then one of them, or was it both?, groaned and there were open mouths. And tongues, darting tentatively at first, but soon becoming more sure. Then John bit, or rather sucked on Sherlock’s lower lip and that decided it. He lifted the shorter man by the arse and pushed him gently enough onto the counter, never breaking the contact, but rather deepening the kiss. John replied with a contented moan and moving his hands to the back of Sherlock’s head, fingers getting tangled in curls. Sherlock’s hands, in the meanwhile, busied themselves with fumbling with the back of John’s jumper, attempting to push it up at all costs.

When they broke away, their hands were still on each other, Sherlock still attempted to remove the bothersome jumper and John rested his hands gingerly on Sherlock’s hips. They wore twin expressions, flushed, kiss swollen lips, pupils blown large. Sherlock smirked as he moved one of his hands to the front of John’s trousers, grabbing the belt. John looked down, first at his own predicament, then at his flatmate’s.

“My room?” he asked.

“Mine is much closer.”

“I have things, possibly necessary things.”

Sherlock hesitantly removed his hands and made room for John to jump off the counter. He gestured for John to lead the way, grinning like a madman all the while.

 

The suddenly offensive jumper was the first thing to make its way to the floor.

“So you said you liked my jumper because I don’t wear a shirt underneath it, then?”

Sherlock smirked and removed his own jacket, shrugging it onto the floor. He began to unbutton his shirt, but his hands were swatted away. John took over, alternating between flicking buttons open and laying kisses on each new spot of exposed flesh. This gave Sherlock leave to concern himself with John’s belt, which required more concentration than he thought, as the other man teasingly jerked his hips away, but then needily thrust them forward in the next moment. By the time he had the belt free enough to fumble with the trousers themselves, John had slid down to his knees, not so gracefully undoing the last few of the buttons, and then continuing the process by unbuttoning Sherlock’s trousers and pulling down the flys.

“No pants?” he half growled, half groaned.

“Unnecessary.”

John shook his head as he pulled the trousers the rest of the way down, revealing lean, pale legs, converging in the most perfect patch of and beneath that a more perfect, at least in John’s estimation, cock, far more than half hard. John grabbed Sherlock’s hips and looked up, giving him a slight smirk before wrapping kiss swollen lips around his cock. Sherlock moaned and grasped for John’s hair, stroking it not so gently. He felt the soft humming of John around him, and could not help but looking down, looking to see his best friend, gripping him tightly with his cheeks hollowed and swallowing as though it was the most splendid way to spend his afternoon. John shot a gaze up at him, becoming aware of his gaze, and he found himself throwing his head back, exclaiming a mixture of words that he himself could not even be sure of. “God-John-fuck-more-more-this-so” and then finally “stop.”

John released him, sliding his mouth gently off of the now spit coated cock.

“Stop?” he asked, gasping for breath.

Sherlock motioned for him to rise, leaning down for a closed mouthed kiss.

“Fuck me,” he whispered, shrugging off his shirt, which was successfully unbuttoned but not fully removed.

The look John gave him was enough to make his head spin, the sheer surprise and arousal.

“I thought you thought that I-” John began, searching for words.

“The ridiculous handkerchief thing was an experiment, to see how you felt on the issue, should the matter ever arise.”

“And?”

“Your response indicated that you quite enjoy both positions, and you don’t like being relegated to just one in a sexual relationship. Now, if you’d kindly touch me in some manner before I go mad.”

“Lay down, yeah?”

“This first.”

Sherlock smirked and grabbed for John’s waistbands, pulling off trousers and pants in one quick move. He then climbed unto the bed and watched as John stepped out the clothes at his ankles, taking his socks off with them as well, and proceeded to his nightstand, digging around hastily. He threw a tube on the bed.

“Cherry?” Sherlock queried, lifting a brow. “How pedestrian.”

John half ignored this and crawled into the bed himself, after finding the condoms he was searching for.

“I only have three,” he commented. “Going to have to go shopping soon.”

“Unnecessary, unless you have something I’m completely unaware of.”

Sherlock moved over, pinning John to the bed. He leaned over, nibbling on his earlobe and then proceeding downward with small intimate love bites. John squirmed in reply, rocking his hips forward so that their pricks rubbed together. Sherlock’s response was a low moan John’s neck, and led to delicate kisses being placed on his bad shoulder. There was, of course, a counteraction on the other side of his body, when Sherlock pinched his right nipple, forcing a deep groan out of the other man. John gripped Sherlock’s hips tightly and ground up into him urgently. He then used his grip to flip their positions.

“Need you in me, now,” Sherlock demanded.

“Hold on,” John replied, leaning over to the other side of the bed to grab the bottle of lube. “Front or back?”

“I want to see you.”

At this admission, John could not help but lean over and deeply kiss the pale man before him. He then sat up and settled between Sherlock’s legs, and began preparing him. The feeling of the lubricant on his skin made Sherlock’s face twist into a silent ‘o’. John smiled to himself and started with one finger, the other man responding by attempting to create motion. Soon, he retracted that and began with the second, curling his fingers gently and at last finding his prostate. He thrust them, slowly, each time hitting Sherlock’s prostate and causing him to cry out with each movement.

“Please just,” he managed between the exclamations.

“Alright, I’ll just,” John smirked.

He repositioned himself, watching as Sherlock adjusted a pillow to properly support his hips and then began to slowly stroke himself. John slicked himself up as speedily as he could manage, but at this point in time, he couldn’t help but be shaking ever so slightly.

“Ready?”

Sherlock nodded, biting his lower lip. John lined himself up and slowly pushed in. The room felt still for a few moments, until he was completely inside, and then Sherlock omitted a very breathy “John”.

John began thrusting as the longest pair of legs he had ever seen wrapped themselves around his waist. He found a rhythm, slow and strong, each thrust hitting home. Sherlock’s litany of nonsense continued, starting with “You’re amazing” and developing to “Oh my God” to the French “putain” and finally to a chorus of “ohs” and “Johns” as he began to pump himself harder. John’s response was constant, a stream of “Sherlock, you’re brilliant” slowly dropping the excess and ending up being simply “S’lock”.

“John, oh, I’m com-” Sherlock began, but never finished, as he felt another hand on his prick, pumping him through his last comprehensive thought before the world was all blurs and John.

This was enough for John, whose own orgasm washed over him mere seconds later, and the last coherent word he managed was “fuck.” He pulled out and collapsed to the side of Sherlock, wanting to fall onto him, but desiring more to avoid the semen on his stomach.

“That was” Sherlock began, searching for words.

“Are you at a loss for words?” John said, attempting to crawl out of bed.

“It appears so.”

“We’ve definitely gotten past a proper kiss.”

John’s feet hit the ground and he padded around the room, searching at first for clothing, but he decided to forego it. He left the room but returned a minute later, a wet flannel in his hand. He climbed back into bed and cleaned Sherlock up, planting kisses on his bony shoulder, his left nipple, his stomach all the while.

“I’m going to take a nap, yeah?” John said, placing the cloth on his nightstand. “Then we’re going to take a shower.”

“Together?”

“If you’d like. Then we’re going to get some takeaway, then I’m turning in early for the night because I have work tomorrow, unless you can convince me to stay home.”

“I’m sure I could work something up.” Sherlock smirked and leaned over to kiss John.

“Will you stay in bed with me, then?” John asked when they pulled away.

“I’m not particularly tired, but I have a lot of new data to process, so I might as well stay here.”

“Data?”

Sherlock gave him the look that meant he was clearly stating the obvious. John shook his head in reply and threw an arm around Sherlock, and pulled the blanket over them with his other arm. He then laid his head on the other man’s chest, listening to his heartbeat and letting the slowly recovering pace lull him asleep.

“Sherlock?” John asked, half asleep.

“Hmm?”

“What the fuck is a rocknrolla?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thus ends my first lengthy attempt at fic and probably my only attempt at anything resembling case-fic. For anyone who read, I thank you for dealing with my crap. I might re-explore this world briefly. I'm also very tempted to try my hand at some just RocknRolla fic. (By the way, apparently Guy Ritchie has the script for the sequel just sitting around. I've been having emotions about this all week.)


End file.
